Clash of Thrones
by Revan5
Summary: 5 years after the Organization has fallen, the world has dramatically changed. Miria has been anointed Queen of Toulouse, Raki and Claire have married and become parents, while the continent's Great War has ended in a victory for the legendary silver-eyed empress, Katarzyna Romanowa. Yet events are in motion that threaten to end the peace and create a new clash of thrones...
1. Chapter 1: Pirates and Problems

**Clash of Thrones**

**By Revan5**

* * *

><p><em>The Organization has been gone for five long years. Priscilla and the Destroyer have been exterminated. We thought an era of peace was at hand, and with the Organization, Yoma and Awakened all gone, we felt secure the knowledge of partial awakening was safe. We shared this knowledge to save the lives of our new comrades. We thought everyone was gone but us… but we were wrong. One last loyalist remained; the Organization's secret warrior, Marcella. Twin sister to Miata, she was absolutely loyal to her masters and trained to replace Rafaela, and in her cunning she waited until we were relaxed to strike.<em>

_Marcella killed our comrade Rachel, sprang an Organization agent from prison, kidnapped Audrey and fled by ship before we could stop her. We feared the knowledge would tip the war decisively and threaten our very independence. When that did not soon happen, we turned complacent. In the absence of Yoma, war and politics reemerged on the island and soon distracted us. We were pledged to protect humanity, yet how could we protect humanity from itself? Many of us turned north in disgust, to Pieta, where we attempted to live apart from the war-torn politics of the island. For a time it seemed like this could go on forever._

_When Rabona itself came under siege by a ruthless warlord named King Charles, Phantom Miria prodded us into acting. We saved the city, and in return, Miria took command of the Rabonese military. Two and a half years after the Organization's annihilation, Rabona finally emerged the war's victor at the battle of Kerouac. It was in the glowing aftermath of our triumph when we finally shocked to learn what Marcella had wrought. The alliance backing the Organization had disappeared, replaced by an empire under the rule of a silver-eyed empress._

_It turned out the very first person saved by Audrey's knowledge was the future empress, Katarzyna Romanowa. Romanowa's rise to power was on the back of her intellect and use of claymores and soldiers together, not on Awakened super weapons. With her rise to power has come the rise to power of our kind. Partial awakening has made us stronger and more stable, but also able to reproduce with only our kind, not humans. With this development comes talk of claymores being a new "master race". I find this disturbing. We are a race not meant to exist, combining both the best and worst features of humans and Dragonkin. I hear however that some members of the silver-eyed elite in the Romanow Empire like to believe in such horrible things._

_Katarzyna Romanowa came to Toulouse over a year ago and insisted she was our friend and ally. Many here in Rabona and Toulouse want to believe her. After all, three and a half years after the Organization's demise, her military forced the Dragonkin-led Grand Alliance to sue for peace. I am not so sanguine. This empress rose to power by betraying her superiors, utterly wiping out the royal families, including even the innocent babies. People like to point out she has abolished slavery and serfdom, but does this really mean we can trust her? Although there is only one world and many thrones within it, hers has grown in power beyond the point of restraint. What will happen if there's a new clash of thrones and Rabona becomes involved? Can we survive one way or another, for or against this silver-eyed empress? I fear we may find out far too soon.-**Anastasia Galacon, former 7th Warrior of the Organization**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong>

**Pirates and Problems**

_"In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy's country whole and intact; to shatter and destroy it is not so good. So, too, it is better to recapture an army entire than to destroy it, to capture a regiment, a detachment or a company entire than to destroy them. Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."**-Sun Tzu, the Art of War**_

* * *

><p>"What a sight," Raki murmured, looking out of his home's master bedroom.<p>

He was looking out on Rabona from the open window in his home's master bedroom. Below, the street was just beginning to stir to life after the dangerous night. In the distance, he heard the barking of dogs, though too distant to bother him. At first glance Rabona seemed to have a very similar look throughout. All the roofs of the homes, manors and churches were covered by clay red tiles. Similarly, due to an ancient decree by the Rabona Orthodox Church, the only buildings allowed in town had to have brick exteriors. Yet, beyond this uniformity lay a city full of wildly varying architecture. As the sun's rays lit up the city skyline, a bewildering array of buildings became obvious.

Rabona was full, as it always had been, of church spires, towers and steeples. Yet it was also full of new manors, some built with grand towers, others with gabled roofs, and several, which Raki knew belonged to foreign merchants, sported beautiful domes and half domes. Further south, the city's immense fortified walls dominated the landscape, though lately the skyline was overtaking even this and growing higher still. Docks, warehouses, the masts of ships and loading cranes dotted the river bisecting Rabona to his right. Beyond that Raki glimpsed a tall bronze statue of two winged angels towering over a square lined with many of the city's less well-built blockhouses. He secretly winced, for he suspected his own was not much better.

It was perhaps not the nicest of homes in Rabona, nor did it stand out much on its street in southern Rabona. At three stories, it was no taller or shorter than the others on their narrow, cobblestone street. It was however quite warm in the winter, and with its high ceilings, the place was relatively comfortable during Rabona's hot summer days. Raki glanced around the master bedroom and sighed; it was still quite plain. Decorating the room were two dressers, a new-fangled full-length mirror in one corner, a small end table near the bed, and atop it, a shiny new wooden clock that counted time by hours. The floors were unfinished oak, upon which sat the room's only bed, a huge, white canopy bed that hid its occupant from the world. In it was some ruffled, thick blue mattresses, and emerging from them was a single woman's head with short blond hair. Raki smiled as Claire continued to sleep, oblivious to the world.

That didn't last long, for a moment later the echoes of trumpeters practicing invaded their home and brought Claire to bury her head underneath a large pillow.

"Those damn trumpeters are ruining my mornings," Claire grumbled.

Raki heard the echoing of trumpets once more bouncing down the city's streets, through its alleyways, and off many of the nearby church steeples.

"Would you shut the window," Claire snapped, exasperated at the echoing noise.

Raki found the window had jammed and was proving difficult to un-jam without wrecking the entire frame. Meanwhile the noise of cavalrymen patrolling past the house in the street below was adding to the aggravation.

"Raki," Claire snapped, her voice still muffled by the pillow over her head.

"There," he sighed, exasperated, as the window finally un-jammed and fell shut. "It's not that bad, Claire. Besides you should see all the flags and pennants flying. It's quite the sight."

Claire grumbled back, kicking her feet under the covers, "I don't care if it's Miria's coronation or not. I get little enough sleep without people making things worse."

'Hopeless like always,' Raki thought. Claire was never one for pomp and ceremony, or much for rank and hierarchy like Miria. It didn't help she had three young silver-eyed children to deal with, all of whom had far too much energy for their own good. Teresa in particular seemed to enjoy testing her mother's patience.

Raki turned back to the beautiful sight of Rabona's skyline at dawn. All over, atop church steeples, manor towers, the fortified wall and draped from balconies were flags and pennants of all shapes and colors. One of those flying was the Kingdom of Toulouse's new national flag. It was a rich navy blue, with a four-pointed white star at its center. The resident directly across the street had draped this flag and the new royal standard. This was far flashier, and was quartered with two distinctive family coats of arms. Miria's was of a golden, winged sphinx upon a blue background, while her husband Cid's coat of arms consisted of a golden fortress upon a regal red background. Each design was quartered twice, in opposing corners.

Raki remarked at all the flags, "You know, I never thought Miria would become Queen of Toulouse, of the whole island I mean. Five years ago she was just as dirt poor and uninterested in politics as the rest of us."

"Miria was never 'uninterested' in politics, and the only reason she's on the throne is you put her there," Claire pointed out, her head emerging from under the pillow.

Raki had indeed nominated Miria to be queen, though only a constitutional one. He'd originally been opposed, but then, through a series of traumatic events he never wished to relive, he'd felt it was the only way to unify the island. In the end, it had only been the reassurance of Miria's steady hand on the throne that had convinced some to give elections a try.

"If I hadn't who else would you have trusted filling the power vacuum?"

"I'm not complaining," Claire pointed out.

Raki noticed a blond, long-haired man pacing a distant tower that rose from atop a fine urban manor. Atop the tower were three different flags. One was the royal standard of Phantom Miria and Cid's new royal House of Malaga. The next was the blue and white star flag of the Kingdom of Toulouse. But the last flag caught the eye like nothing else. It featured a double-headed, golden eagle, wings outstretched but with no talons, all upon a satin black background. It was the flag of the world's greatest power, the Romanow Empire. The irony was it was a power that in some ways only existed because of the events they'd set in motion in Toulouse.

"I see Vice Ambassador Lazarov is up early," Raki noted. "Miria invited all of the Romanow dignitaries I trust?"

"So I've heard," Claire sighed, noncommittal and clearly a little tired.

His wife laid on her back and looked over, "Even the empress herself was invited."

Raki whistled, "They invited Katarzyna Romanowa to the coronation?"

"So what if they did? She's not coming," Claire stated with certainty.

Katarzyna Romanowa had not earned a great deal of respect from Claire, but she was a warrior that was impossible to ignore. Claire mostly respected warriors either out of friendship or because of their overwhelming fighting prowess. Katarzyna Romanowa however, while surely a decent fighter, had not risen to the top on her brawn. She'd risen to become an empress of what had been the alliance of states backing the Organization because quite simply she was the most dangerous general the world had.

"Well at least everyone we know in the empire is coming," Raki shrugged.

Claire pursed her lips, "Aren't you forgetting someone?"

"I don't think so," Raki replied, quite sure as he glanced away from the window.

"Have you forgotten all about Dietrich?"

Raki frowned, "Dietrich's not coming to the coronation?"

Claire sighed, "Her letter said she had to hunt down some pirates."

Raki blinked in disbelief, "She's skipping the coronation to hunt pirates for the empress?"

* * *

><p>The voices haunted her like they always did.<p>

"How can you serve someone who murdered children?"

"But there's more to her than just that," Dietrich responded.

"Murder is still murder no matter how well-intentioned."

Dietrich tried to respond, "Yes, but—"

Another female voice voice butted in, "How could you leave your friends?"

Almost concurrently another female voice interjected, "You made a choice to serve a murderer, Dietrich."

"I can still leave and come back to Rabona," Dietrich promised the voice.

"And what will you do when the day comes when your new mistress turns her arms on your old friends?"

The crash of cannon fire jolted Dietrich's eyes wide open. Her eyes found a watery world around her, much of the sea being shrouded in fog. Dietrich realized she'd fallen half asleep upon the ship's railing in her drowsiness and begun to daydream. The sound of fabric flapping in the wind drew her eyes upwards from where she now stood. Above the warship's large stern a large flag flew. It was colored satin black for its background color, while in contrast a huge, double-headed golden eagle with a tail but no legs, its wings outstretched, dominated her attention. It was the flag of the the country to which Dietrich had pledged her service.

It was a choice no one back home in Toulouse had understood. Claire, Helen, Raki and the others could not see what she saw in her position. She had the potential to do far more for the people of Toulouse and the world in the Romanow Empire than in a strategic backwater like the Kingdom of Toulouse. Rabona to them was the world; Dietrich knew otherwise.

The ships was moving at good speed despite the fog, with the wake of the ship producing little eddies as it went along as she watched from the stern.

A fluid, baritone male voice interrupted her contemplation, "Beautiful isn't it?"

Dietrich glanced over to find a man of only modest proportions. Despite this his uniform and stance commanded attention and demonstrated his authority in no uncertain terms. He wore a splendid red, gold and black captain's coat, a black and gold-braid bicorn hat, and moved like a man who knew his position in the world. His curly black locks seemed out of place on a man who looked otherwise spotless.

Dietrich greeted him, "Captain Ferrara, I see you've been busy with cannon exercises."

Ferrara was only modestly taller than her, and he smelled like a combination of fresh clothes and burnt gunpowder. Dietrich had meant to speak with him earlier in the day, but she could not abide the stench of gunpowder nor did she enjoy being around weapons that used it.

"Hrabia," Ferrara addressed her melodramatically, bending down on one knee to kiss her gloved hand, "I am honored to have you aboard. I assume your quarters were to your liking?"

Dietrich's face was a mask; in truth the ship smelled too much of unwashed men and gutted fish, and her quarters paled in comparison to the luxury of her personal manor in the empire's capital of Visegrad. However, she was not about let on to all of that.

"They're fine," Dietrich managed.

Ferrara favored her with a grin, "I sense that you are not fond of my ship."

Dietrich eyebrows arched, "When did I complain about your ship?"

Ferrara smiled, "You didn't, but your eyes betray you, my dear Countess."

Dietrich reassured the captain, "It's not your ship I'm not fond of; the CSS Cesarski is a fine ship. I just do not enjoy gunpowder weapons. They don't see very chivalrous to me."

Dietrich pointed to one of the warship's many cannon. She would not admit it to Ferrara, but the warship had impressed her from the beginning. The CSS Cesarski's deck buzzed with activity behind them, and up above amongst the three masts and sails. It was a 36-gun galleon, the latest in naval warfare, and capable of engaging all but large warships in a battle. It made up for that, she had been told, through its better handling, smaller crew needed and greater speed, making her an ideal independent warship. Or so Ferrara had claimed.

Ferrara eyebrows arched, "Excuse me for saying this, Your Grace, but when I was told to expect an Imperial Emisssary, you were not the kind of emissary I was expecting."

Dietrich turned and gave him a warning look, "Why is that?"

Captain Ferrara shrugged and held out his hands, "How can I say this tactfully? Cesarzowa Katarzyna is known for many things, but she does she seem to have any qualms about using gunpowder weapons. How then is it you dislike the weapons she favors but are still entrusted to represent her here?"

Dietrich tapped the ship's railing, "I was originally His Imperial Majesty's emissary to the Cesarzowa. It was something of a joint appointment by their Imperial Majesties."

"Ah," Ferrara quietly acknowledged.

Wenceslaus Romanow, the new silver-eyed husband of Katarzyna Romanowa, was both de facto co-sovereign with Katarzyna and already famous for his fondness of a more chivalrous age. While Dietrich admired the spirit, she was fairly certain the only place where that age existed was in the mind of the emperor and his idealistic supporters.

Dietrich asked, "Why were you doing gunnery practice this early?"

"Because the pirate, Zach Dempsey was seen not more than an hour's sailing from here yesterday," a silver-eyed warrior interrupted.

The male warrior was athletic and lean, kept his blond hair short and well-trimmed, and had the nose and narrow eyes of someone of Siyamese descent. He wore the gray and gold uniform of an Imperial Marine, and unlike Dietrich was armed with two pistols, a pair of what looked to be naphtha grenades, two duratium short swords, a pair of daggers, and had what appeared to be throwing knives on one sleeve. He made a very intimidating figure.

Ferrara gestured to the new arrival, "Your Grace, this is Lieutenant Commander Wen Jintao. He's commander of marines on board."

"Pleased to meet you," Dietrich said, holding out her hand.

She had, after all, only boarded the ship that very morning.

Wen Jintao did not return her smile or meet her attempted handshake. The smile that had graced Ferrara's face above his chiseled jaw faded away upon seeing this. Dietrich noticed that silver-eyed man was giving her a rather mocking smirk. She turned her gaze away from him and back to the captain.

Ferrara looked as if he regretted something, "We ran across several fishermen stranded in a dinghy. They say a pirate ship attacked their vessel in these waters not more than a day ago. I intend to be ready when we meet him."

Dietrich knew where she was; thousands of miles south of Rabona, so far, that in fact she was in the southern hemisphere and not the northern one. The Ashen Isles were located just northwest of the the world's massive main continent. They were not far offshore, but had been far enough the Romanow Empire had lost control of them as the empress had put down revolts and repulsed the invading Grand Alliance elsewhere. Though there was no proof, there'd been rumors the isles might not have broken free spontaneously. Just one more reason she was here, reporting on things personally to the imperial family.

Dietrich looked around at the CSS Cesarski's crew before asking, "The Cesarzowa will be glad to hear when the pirate Zach Dempsey is captured. As she was happy to hear the fleet recaptured the Ashen Isles from the separatists."

Jintao hissed, "She had better after half the fleet got destroyed following her coup."

Dietrich reprimanded him, "How dare you—"

Jintao kept up the astonishing stream of insults, "Oh yes, how dare I, when your darling Cesarzowa ignored our plight to deal with sixteen different aristocratic rebellions she caused by killing off the royal families. Every damn distant relation thought he or she was heir to something; it was like throwing 160 roosters into a single cockfight. You know what happened to our fleet, the grandest and greatest in the world, while that happened? It tore itself apart! Some were for your bloody Cesarzowa, some were for the royalists, and some were traitorous dogs who defected to the Bretonese and Haaraleenese rather than stay. For someone who's an Imperial Emissary you can't even speak Comnenian with the right accent."

"That's because I'm not Comnenian," Dietrich snapped, losing her patience.

Jintao flicked some hair away from one eye and snarkily remarked, "What are you, just another Asturian pretending she's Comnenian to raise her rank?"

Captain Ferrara interjected, "Gods, man, are you trying to get your head chopped off? See to your marines! What are the rest of you looking at? Get back to work!"

Jintao turned with a disgusted look and walked over to a group of marines practicing their gunnery on the foredeck. Dietrich only just realized nearly everyone within earshot was not so subtly listening in to the entire conversation when suddenly an entire block of the nearest crew turned sheepishly away from her. Ferrara paced to the railing and those further away suddenly turned to their task with renewed vigor. Dietrich got the impression Jintao had mounted the entire affront as theater for the ship's crew.

Ferrara surprised her by grasping her gloved hand and kissing it, "Hrabia, I would ask for leniency regarding Wen. I know what he's said ought to earn him a—"

Dietrich's mind was not on what Ferrara was saying; she was more concerned about whether she was a target for anti-Romanow rage. She was not terribly surprised there were still some, including warriors, who were not exactly enamored of Romanow rule. After the Organization's fall, the Alliance of Nations had nearly collapsed, with the massive Bengali Empire falling apart and leaving the alliance. That had left the massive Kingdom of Comnenia as the dominant nation within the alliance.

When the Allied Army's top commanders reached the opinion that it was the incompetence of the royals costing them victory in the Great War, a coup was hatched. They presumed that Romanowa, their best general, would play the part of figurehead Supreme Allied Commander in the new regime that would follow royals' annihilation. The plan was for a council of top officers to actually call the shots. Dietrich almost pitied their naivety. Katarzyna Romanowa had been continually underestimated by enemy generals who thought a female could not lead anyone. She was also well-educated and intimately familiar with court politics. But the one thing everyone missed was her claim to the Comnenian throne.

As it happened, Katarzyna Romanowa was the great-granddaughter of King Augustyn IV, who 70 years prior been deposed by his younger brother, Stanislaus II. Augustyn had a daughter, Augustyna, who survived and went on to have children. One of those children was Katarzyna's father, Bernard, who had disappeared, leaving Katarzyna the sole heir to Augustyn's claim to the Comnenian throne. Legally her line had been barred from the inheritance, but then again, Stanislaus hadn't exactly had a right to the throne when he'd taken it. Thus when she'd been named Supreme Allied Commander, Katarzyna took advantage of the emergency to secure her position. She pressed her claim to the Comnenian throne, declared herself an empress of a new, unified empire, and dared anyone, including her would-be superiors, to defy her.

Those that had defied her had either lost their lives or fled into exile, such was her skill on the battlefield. The new country may have been called the Romanow Empire, but it was truly a Comnenian empire. This had not gone down well in some places, which was probably why a non-Comnenian warrior like Wen Jintao was causing Dietrich trouble.

Dietrich had been lost in these thoughts when a shout shook her alert.

"Captain," a sailor shouted from high above, "unknown ship at 10 o'clock!"

She glanced up to see a sailor in the crow's nest pointing.

Ferrara raced to the portside railing, took out his spyglass, and looked in the direction the sailor in the crow's nest was pointing. Dietrich noticed that the fog of the early morning had mostly disappeared, giving a wide field of view all around. Dietrich squinted and made out a sail on the horizon.

She stood next to Captain Ferrara and asked, "Is that him?"

Ferrara murmured, "Oh it's Dempsey alright. The scum is flying a skull and crossbones flag so large I can see it from here."

Dietrich frowned, "Why isn't he turning around and fleeing?"

Ferrara, his voice low, cursed, "Bastardo. That's not any ordinary pirate sloop. That's a 48-gun man o'war, and he's heading straight for us."

"Sound the call to action," Ferrara bellowed, "I want every man ready for boarding!"

A pair of drummers beat out a military call to action as marines and sailors scrambled to their stations, some grabbed guns, grenades and swords from the armory. Other sailors began spreading sand around the deck, and Dietrich knew from personal experience why. It was for getting traction even when the deck was covered in blood.

Dietrich clutched Ferrara's left arm, "We can't fight that, we're outgunned!"

Ferrara shrugged off her hand, "Never tell me what I can't fight, Your Grace. I'll be damned if I'm going to flee from a pirate. I suggest you get yourself better armed."

With that Captain Ferrara hurried down the steps of the CSS Cesarski's sterncastle and onto the main deck, supervising the preparations for battle.

"Merde," Dietrich cursed.

For the second time in three years, she was about to be in a naval battle.

* * *

><p>Raki remarked while still looking out his bedroom window on Rabona's skyline, "I wonder how that pirate-hunting is going for Dietrich."<p>

He noticed Claire glance over from over his shoulder.

Claire shrugged, "I'm sure she's doing fine."

Raki noticed a blond-haired woman in a fine red dress was busily kissing Vice Ambassador Lazarov upon his manor tower's balcony a few blocks away. Even with his prodigious eyesight, Raki couldn't quite make the details. The woman seemed vaguely familiar to him however.

"Claire, does that woman Lazarov kissing look familiar to you?"

Claire sighed and clambered out of bed wearing only her white nightgown. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and looked only briefly.

"Claire, you didn't look," Raki grumbled.

"Raki, you need to get out of this spying habit," Claire reprimanded him. "What Lazarov does with a woman is none of your business. I'd much rather we had some fun."

"Ahh," Raki moaned softly.

Claire's hands had grasped his manhood and were delicately sliding up it as she kissed him affectionately on the neck.

Claire mischievously asked, "Why don't you join me in bed?"

Claire was never one for saying many words when it came to romance, but she also never failed to get him in the mood. Raki turned around and grabbed her by the waist with his right hand and pulled her head close with his left. Claire kissed him with a passion and then surprised him by jumping onto him, her legs wrapping tightly against his waist. Raki laid Claire onto the white bed even as her legs remained locked around him. Almost frantic with passion, he lifted up her distracting nightgown and pushed forward.

Claire's legs tightened painfully against him as she let out an involuntary moan while Raki grunted both in pain and pleasure. Her legs were tightening around his waist quite painfully, getting tighter with every thrust. This was the one drawback to having a claymore for a wife; when in the throes of passion, Claire could give him just as much pain as pleasure. Still Raki kept going, ignoring the pain and his shortening of breath. He grabbed Claire's hands and spread her arms to either side and held them there as they kept going. If he hadn't, he knew from experience he was liable to have bleeding scratches all up and down his back. Again and again he kept at it until Claire's legs grasped much too hard.

"Oww, oww, oww, Claire, stop it, you're hurting me," Raki gasped, finally pulling free.

Raki laid down onto the bed, panting and wincing in pain, and for a merciful few seconds he was able to gather his breath. Claire had other ideas, for moments later she was sitting atop his waist and then leaned forward for a kiss. Claire could act cool for awhile, but once she was in the mood it was hard to get her to stop.

"Claire, buttercup," Raki gasped, still in pain, "can you give me a minute?"

"I'll make it up to you later," Claire promised, shaking her short hair out of her eyes.

Without even a hesitation, she fell upon him with fervor. Raki pushed himself up against the wooden back of the bed when Claire's eyes turned golden and snake-like. Like many claymores, Claire's yoma energy use often spiked involuntarily from the pleasure. This he was used to seeing with Claire. Suddenly though she pinned his hands down to the bed and in almost animal-like fashion threw herself at him, her body rubbing up and down his with each motion.

She grasped at him as if it were her last day alive, her passion enveloping him in heat and pleasure that finally began to overwhelm the pain. The bed literally shook from her efforts, smacking repeatedly against the wall and shaking. Within moments Raki was so distracted he forgot about his pain. The pleasure arced up his spine again, and again, overwhelming the pain, until finally, almost spent, he could hold back no longer.

Claire's gasped, her breath coming in short moments, her back arched in pleasure until finally the moment passed. Claire soon pulled off of him, not even breathing hard, and laid down beside him, her back to him. Raki reached around and cupped her breasts with his left arm. Claire let out a happy sigh at his touch.

Raki whispered, "I thought you weren't interested in trying for a baby so soon after Dominique , no?"

Claire looked over her shoulder at him and rolled her eyes, "I'm not giving up my fun because of that. Besides, it's not possible to conceive another baby when I'm on top."

"Ah," Raki murmured.

There were moments when he realized Helen was on to something about Claire deluding herself. He was fairly certain it didn't matter which position she used, but he was not about to tell Claire that. Besides, he was a big believer in having a large, merry family, and if Claire's delusions furthered that, he wouldn't object. Claire was finding children very stressful, so he could forgive her lack of desire for more at the moment.

'With any luck we'll have another soon enough,' Raki happily thought.

Claire grasped his hand cupping her left breast and whispered, "Raki, I want you to get me something."

"Anything for you, dear," Raki agreed, enjoying her warmth against his.

"I want you to hire a maidservant to look after the house," Claire demanded.

'Boy I really walked into that one,' Raki thought.

"Claire, you know we can't afford that on my salary," Raki objected.

Claire got up, throwing his hand off, and more forcefully made her point sitting up, "You said you would do anything for me. I can't deal with the house the way it is, Raki. The twins are always wrecking something and it's getting dirtier every day. At least ask Helen to pay for one next time you see her."

"It took a moment for this to sink in on him before he objected, "Oh no, no, there is no way you are getting me to ask Helen to pay for a maidservant. I don't need anyone's charity."

Helen was part owner, along with Miria and a host of others, of a hugely lucrative series of diamond mines near Pieta that had fueled Rabona's explosive growth and new wealth. She could probably afford five hundred maids and call it cheap, but Raki had no intention of relying upon her charity.

Claire's temper flared, "This is not about your damn pride!"

"This isn't about my pride," Raki snapped, defensive.

This as it turned out was the exact wrong thing to say to Claire.

Claire got out of bed and stood up, irate, "I do everything for you. I wear dresses to the Parlement even if I hate them because you asked me to, I went through two labors for you, I deal with the kids all day while you're at work, and now, when I ask for one measly thing, you're too embarrassed to do it! I've had it up to here with giving and giving!"

Raki got up and in his best apologetic tone, "Claire, you know why—"

Claire crossed her arms, "I told you I'd have been much happier and felt better with the kids not in Rabona. You insisted—"

Raki interjected, "Claire, we are not doing this. We are not going to get into an argument about one of us somehow being at fault for the kids being taken hostage. You know me. Do you think I would have insisted on coming to Rabona had I known that was going to happen? We're probably safer here than anywhere else in Toulouse now that Miria's on the throne."

Deep down he wondered if maybe female claymores just were not suited to the stress and wearying routine of domestic life in a city. Claire certainly would have been happier out on the road with him, ignoring the politics of the wider world while killing Yoma and Awakened. Unfortunately for her, she'd also convinced him to get the operation to become a claymore, which had resulted in three other individuals now being involved. A life of danger and adventure might have suited a claymore couple without children; it did not however suit a couple with three young silver-eyed children.

Some of Claire's pent-up frustration visibly left her face as his words sunk in, though she said nothing in return. Instead Claire walked to the master bathroom, and slammed the door. Raki got out of bed and knocked on the door.

"Honey, can we talk?"

Claire stubbornly shot back, "No, now get dressed. We still have to be ready to go to the coronation in an hour!"

Raki sighed and wondered if married life might not be more stressful than war.

* * *

><p>Dietrich could her heart beat louder and louder, almost in step with each beat of the CSS Cesarski's drum. She was standing upon the stern of the ship, which was heading straight towards an even bigger pirate vessel, now only a half mile distant. Up above she could see armed sailors with muskets taking up positions atop the wooden scaffolding holding the ship's billowing, great sails. Whatever Captain Ferrara had planned, it did not appear to be a bluff. Ordinarily she was a picture of calm before a battle, but right now Dietrich's heart was racing. She had come to fear naval battles ever since she'd nearly drowned during the first one she'd been in. It was one thing to fight sword to sword, depending on one's skill for survival, and quite another to realize it required only one cannonball or bullet to swiftly to end up just as dead as any normal man.<p>

Ferrara appeared before her, holding out a gun towards her with his right hand.

"You're going to need this," he stated flatly, before rushing off.

Dietrich held the gun in one hand, almost dreading the weapon. It featured a single metal barrel, a fine maple grip, a large trigger underneath, and it had an almost wheel-like firing mechanism. By the looks of things the gun, called a pistol if she remembered correctly, had already been loaded with a shot.

'What honor can there be in such a weapon?'

Dietrich was lost in her thoughts until she was jolted to attention.

"All men to their stations," a junior officer bellowed somewhere further up the ship's deck. Everywhere men were rushing to be readied, with dozens of marines dressed in grey and armed with muskets, short swords and even a crude grenade rushing up from belowdeck. They formed a line on the ship's port side, loading their guns, while the cannon crews were frantically preparing. Most alarmingly of all, Dietrich spotted sailors spreading more sand over the deck.

Dietrich asked a passing marine, "Why are they doing that again?"

"The captain expects more casualties than normal, Your Grace," the big man replied, "the deck will be too slick otherwise once the battle starts."

He left, leaving Dietrich to murmur, "Lovely."

She decided to head up onto the mast, where the chances of a cannonball beheading her or taking a leg off were less. Dietrich would also be able to board the enemy ship much more to her liking from up high. Just before she clambered up the ropes, Dietrich spotted a package of throwing knives, which she strapped onto her arms and legs. She may have had only one shot with her gun, but she was not going to waste it. By the time she'd finished outfitting herself the enemy ship was no more than a half minute distant.

Dietrich raced up the rope ladder to the half-mast platform, where a cluster of men were preparing by ramming lead balls down the barrels of their muskets. She had scarcely arrived when Ferrara could barely be heard over the din of war preparations below.

"On my whistle, boys, give her hell!"

Dietrich noticed the pirate ship, a full deck taller in places and bristling with cannon, was still not broadside of the CSS Cesarski when Ferrara's whistle came.

One of the marines besides Dietrich cursed, "What does the fucker think he's doing—"

The rest of his words were drowned out as the CSS Cesarski let loose an early broadside. Wood shrapnel, splinters, body parts, blood and guts were sent flying all throughout the enemy ship, for the broadside had been angled forward to get in the first shot. Almost in immediate retaliation the blasts of muskets rang out in response from the flush-decked pirate ship. Of the half score of marines with her, one was hit and fell backwards. Before she could pull him back, he fell over the platform's railing screaming in pain and terror. His scream abruptly ended when he met the deck below.

She could only watch from the back of the platform, uselessly, as the marines before her leveled their muskets and simultaneously let loose a volley of shots, enveloping them all with the smoke of their fire and the deafening cacophony that accompanied it. One of the pirate ship's gunners high above the deck let out a scream and fell into the water below. Dietrich reached down to grab one of her throwing knives.

"Nice shot, Jagiellka," one marine complimented a larger comrade.

Jagiellka was never given the chance to reply, for the next moment the pirate ship let loose with a full broadside. Dietrich was knocked backwards suddenly, and when she'd come to a moment later, there were a pair of headless marines piled atop her. She was sandwiched against the platform's railing, although thankfully there was a rope mesh preventing her being knocked off to her doom. The corpses weighed on her, but not enough to trouble her superhuman strength. It took a moment to find the leverage, but soon enough Dietrich was able to push the bodies off her with a push from her legs. A glance found a huge gap in the rope mesh opposite her, towards the imposing pirate ship.

'Cannonball—the poor bastards didn't stand a chance,' Dietrich thought.

She tried not to think how it would have been her head gone as well had she not been reaching for one of her throwing knives at that moment.

The remaining marines were to her left, trying to take advantage of what little cover the ship's main mast offered while they reloaded. A shot hit the mast above Dietrich's head, though she ducked on instinct for all the good it would do her. Soon more shots were whizzing by, some of them impacting with dull thuds and splintering wood into the mast. Dietrich belatedly noticed literally dozens of enemy shooters in the pirate ship's platforms taking aim at her and the nearby marines and realized she was an easy target.

Dietrich scrambled to take cover behind the mast, but just as she reached it, she felt a sting in her chest. It took a moment to find she'd been shot in the chest, the bullet having entered through her right side and lodged in a lung, judging by the pain. That was a real problem. Dietrich knew bullet hits, unless to a warrior's head or heart, were not fatal. But bleeding in the lungs from bullet wounds could suffocate a warrior if suffered enough, and would cut short her breath otherwise. Unfortunately she was in no position to rectify the position. The usual solution, or so she'd heard, was to let the wound heal around the bullet, cut a hole into the chest to drain the lungs of blood, and then retrieve the bullet.

The pirate ship had passed them, with both ship's crews now engaging in pot shots and reloading for the next pass. Dietrich was just about to collect her breath when a sudden lurch thrust her forward and over the platform's railing.

Claire had taken her bath, and Raki followed her example, their house being one of the fortunate few in Rabona with both heated and running water thanks to Helen's generosity. He hadn't wanted to accept Helen's generosity because he'd rather they didn't rely upon the charity of others, but Claire was only too happy to accept. She'd also accepted without him being around, which had resulted in a minor row between them.

Raki upon finishing and toweling himself dry glanced back across the bed and noticed the hour clock at the room's opposite end was reading seven o'clock. He was just getting on his trousers when he noticed Claire buttoning up her fine white and black-striped gown.

Claire looked over and commented, "You had better hurry up and get ready. Miata and her husband will be here to pick us up within the hour and I don't you to be late like always."

Claire looked at him as if he were already late but said nothing more. The uncomfortable quiet was broken by the noise of a baby's crying coming into the room from under the door.

"I'll handle him if you check in on Teresa and Victor," Claire declared.

Before he could utter a word of protest she had walked to the door, opened it, and left the room, leaving him no choice but to go along with her whim as usual. It was not, in his opinion, one of Claire's better habits. Raki looked around the relatively spartan room.

The master bedroom featured only a pair of doors. One led out to the third floor hallway, while the other opposite it led to the cramped master bathroom. Even though he had bought what was by most standards a decent 3-story block house in Rabona, it was beyond his salary as a member of Parlement to have it well-decorated yet. Silver-eyed he may have been, but that didn't pay for food or lodging. They'd tried living on their own, but he'd grown worried about the effect of that on the children. The result was their moving to Rabona, a change the twins had enjoyed, as they were making friends fast despite some disapproving looks at Teresa's horseplay.

He had just finished putting on a blue-and-white vest over a fine, long white shirt when Raki heard the sound of rapid footsteps. He rushed out to see a mattress being slammed down at the top of the stairs. A pair of silver-eyed four-year olds wearing white pants and navy blue shirts then gave a shout of joy and pushed the mattress. As it picked up speed it made a terrific racket as the mattress thumped its way rapidly down the stairs to the screaming delight of its riders. The delight didn't last long.

Raki rushed down the stairs and nabbed the culprits firmly in both arms.

"I said no fooling around in the house," Raki reprimanded them. "How many times do I have to tell you this?"

Claire had heard the racket and was walking down the stairs nursing little Dominique, who had been gaining weight fast lately. He was trussed up in blue swaddling meant to keep him from moving.

"That's it, no toys for either of you for the week," Claire declared.

Victor, true to his melodramatic nature, burst into tears and jumped out of Raki's grip.

"Nooonnn, Mère," Victor cried, tears falling like raindrops.

Non was the Rabonese word for no.

Victor rushed up the stairs and clutched his mother's leg, attempting to somehow overturn his mother's orders by overwhelming her with tears. In truth, although Victor's behavior often reminded Raki of his early years, he looked like a short-haired clone of his mother, right down to the shape of his eyes and aquiline nose. Teresa on the other hand had inherited her mother's streak for getting into trouble but had his eyes. She was less melodramatic than Victor but more than made up for it by seeing how far she could push things.

"Victor, for the sake of the gods, you're four years old, you're too old to be crying like this," Claire reprimanded him. "That's not how boys are supposed to act!"

Raki looked away in awkwardness at this moment.

Victor, stomped and cried, "It's not fair!"

"You should have thought of that before you rode your mattress down the stairs," Claire tartly replied.

Claire was not exactly the most forgiving of mothers, but even her old warrior mentality had been taking a beating from dealing with the constant foibles of the twins.

"Raki, put the mattress back," Claire requested, sounding exasperated.

Victor was continuing his sympathy and tears offensive going despite Claire's disapproving look, while Raki had only just brought the mattress upstairs when Claire's attention turned to Teresa. He was setting the down-filled mattress back down on Victor's bed when Claire audibly turned her attention upon the older of the twins.

Claire coldly started the interrogation, "Teresa, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Oh boy," Raki muttered.

Teresa had a habit of not seeing the problem with her behavior and also not knowing better than showing this attitude off to her mother. He often wondered if Teresa secretly enjoyed getting her mother upset.

He rushed out to the hallway to hear Teresa exclaim, "But it was fun!"

This set Claire off into reprimand mode, "That is not an excuse for you to wreck a mattress. That mattress costs a lot of money, your father and I can't afford to replace your mattresses all the time. Would you prefer if you didn't get to sleep on a mattress?"

Teresa looked like a 4-year old version of her mother except for her longer, wavier hair and a tendency to always be smiling. Victor had similarly wavy hair that fell to his shoulders as was the style in Rabona for men and boys. Teresa clasped her hands behind her back and looked at the floor as if innocent before reluctantly admitting to defeat.

"Non," Teresa whispered.

Claire bent down and brought Teresa's face up with a hand, "Then there will be no more horseplay with the mattress, right?"

Teresa looked sideways as if she was tired of this, "Non."

Both twins were wearing white trousers and blue shirts, although Teresa's featured frilly, puffy sleeves. Teresa's clothing was meant to ameliorate the neighbors' haranguing about her "masculine" behavior. It seemed to not be any help so far, as Claire had had to be restrained from knocking out a group of judgmental wives when they'd loudly disapproved of Teresa's running around and playing with the neighborhood's boys in vulgar terms.

Claire followed up Teresa's meek "non" by grabbing Teresa's chin and forcing the girl to look her in the eyes, "The next time either of you decide to break anything in the house, it's coming out of your piggy bank. Do you want me to have to take your piggy bank?"

Teresa for once turned sulky, "Non."

Claire followed up, "Then you won't—"

A loud knock interrupted from downstairs, causing everyone to look down the stairwell towards the ground floor. Raki walked over to the hallway's front window, opened it, and looked down. At the top of the house's front steps was a female claymore wearing a full-body black leather outfit. She was fairly petite, her massive sword covered by a velvet sheath looking almost comically large against her body. The warrior's hair was a brilliant yellow-gold, which she had pulled into two pigtails. Each of these was braided and nearly waist-long, giving the warrior a deceivingly cute appearance.

"We'll be down in a minute, Alexandra," Raki shouted down.

"I'll wait right here then," Alexandra cheerfully answered, looking up.

* * *

><p>Dietrich was barely dangling many stories above the CSS Cesarski's heaving deck, held there only by the fierce grip of her two hands upon the platform's railing. The ship had only moments earlier rapidly slowed down, nearly throwing Dietrich to her doom. By pure instinct, Dietrich had gripped the railing of the platform as her momentum carried her over the platform's edge. A pair of marines scrambled over, grabbed on to each of her arms, and grunting with effort, pulled Dietrich up.<p>

Dietrich gasped, "What in the hell just happened?"

One of the marines, a young, dark-skinned man with a bad goatee, motioned, "The Captain dropped our starboard anchor."

Dietrich glimpsed down through the lingering gunpowder smoke, past the blood and body parts alongside the men on the deck, to the CSS Cesarski's bow. A wooden, winged woman crowned it, but on the bow's right, starboard side, an anchor line was clearly visible. The anchor had clearly been dropped into the water, and it must have snagged on something on the ocean bottom for the warship to slow so suddenly.

Dietrich spat, "What does he think he's doing?!"

The CSS Cesarski was nearly dead in the water while the pirate's ship in contrast was beginning its long turnaround to re-engage them. Dietrich caught a glimpse of Captain Ferrara down below and noticed the ship was drifting with what momentum it still had in a clockwise direction to the portside.

There was a shout below, "Oarsmen, to your duty!"

A long line of oars appeared on the warship's port side, where they lunged forward almost as one, plunged into the water, and pushed backwards against the sea. Suddenly the drifting turned into more of a concerted turn.

"That's brilliant of the captain, that is," the dark-skinned marine remarked.

Dietrich was confused, "What is?"

"He's turning our starboard broadside to the enemy before they can return fire," an older, pale-skinned, veteran marine interjected. "It's the side that hasn't fired yet."

Dietrich realized the two marines had the right of it. She just wished the maneuver hadn't come so close to killing her by throwing her overboard weighted down by her weapons, or worse, plummeting to her doom on the deck. A glance found the pirate ship still within range, but she clearly was picking up on the danger. Every sail she had was being unfurled; the enemy meant to speed out of range before the CSS Cesarski could strike.

"If we're going to take the shot, they'd better hurry," Dietrich commented, her voice tense. "We can't afford to miss this."

The men below on the deck were rushing to their gun stations as the ship made its ponderous, forced turn. The oarsmen were slowing the turn now, counter-rowing to keep the ship from angling too quickly to deliver its broadside. Dietrich cursed how slowly everything was moving; if the pirates managed to get out of effective range, the fight would be over, and her life gone with it.

"Make ready," Captain Ferrara's voice shouted from the deck below. The gun crews weren't even bothering to load their cannons, which alarmed her.

"Come on, they're nearly out of range," Dietrich snapped, the pirate ship now at least a couple hundred meters away and accelerating.

She could see Ferrara pacing the deck, checking the gun sights, all while the wounded were carried below deck and body parts were thrown overboard.

Dietrich muttered aloud, "What the hell is he waiting for?"

"He's getting the guns properly aimed, the veteran marine pointed out.

"Well he had better hurry, because that ship is—"

Dietrich's ranting was interrupted by a single word below, "Fire!"

* * *

><p>Teresa shouted with joy, "Alexandra!"<p>

Raki turned to see his daughter run down the stairs.

Claire snapped, "Don't run down the stairs!"

This might as well been shouted at a brick wall, for it seemed to go in one of Teresa's ears and out the other. She noisily kept going, with Claire impotent to stop her given Dominique was still nursing from his mother's breast. Victor meanwhile was walking quickly down the stairs. Raki followed his son downstairs. When he'd arrived on the ground floor Teresa was hurriedly unlocking the front door. Or at least she was trying to, but Teresa couldn't reach the upper locks with her small frame.

"Here, let me help you," Raki interjected, picking up his daughter.

She gleefully turned the top two locks on the front door, and upon being set down deftly opened the front door. The sun lit up Alexandra from behind, giving her an almost heavenly aura as she held out her arms welcomingly.

"There's my little champion," Alexandra gushed.

Teresa's enthusiasm carried her up and into Alexandra's arms in a flying leap, practically knocking over her silver-eyed babysitter.

"Teresa, that's not how we greet guests," Raki lectured.

"It's all right," Alexandra smiled, recovering her poise with a smile as she embraced little Teresa in a hug. "Bonjour, Claire. I see Dominique's been getting bigger."

Claire had walked up silently behind him holding 6-month old Dominique. Raki turned to find she'd covered up before exposing herself to onlookers. Claire had the barest hint of a grin upon her face. Alexandra was something of a loquacious gusher and eternal optimist, something that made grins around her almost impossible to avoid. It was why Alexandra was trusted with the kids when they were away. That and she was quite lethal with a sword. This was unfortunately an absolute necessity for them. The children had turned from being their pride and sometimes aggravation to being a potential way to blackmail them.

When fanatical officers had attempted a coup against the new Parlement more than a year ago, they'd taken the twins hostage when they were away. It had all been a ploy to guarantee he and Claire didn't stop the coup by force when soldiers began pouring into Parlement. Of course those soldiers hadn't been counting on Phantom Miria's reaction. Miria had crushed the revolt by walking into the Parlement and arresting the coup plotters while her husband, Cid, had risked life and limb to save the twins. For her actions, Parlement had named Miria to the vacant throne of Toulouse along with her husband, Cid.

"Look at the little cutey," Alexandra gushed, reaching out towards Dominique. "Do you mind if I hold him?"

"Not at all," Claire murmured, passing little Dominique over.

He burst into tears in the arms upon seeing Alexandra's face replacing his mother's.

Alexandra took this in stride as she held Dominique in one arm, "Come now, this is my second time holding you. What's the matter, Victor? Why are you sniffling?"

Victor grumbled, "Mère won't let me have toys!"

Claire was unapologetic, "I had to take his toys after he and his sister decided to ride their mattress down the stairs."

"Well that's too bad," Alexandra tactfully offered. "We'll just have to have fun some other way then, won't we?"

There was an awkward silence after this, as Raki knew Claire wanted Alexandra to be a harder on the twins. It was a useless sentiment. The same bubbly attitude that made Alexandra a natural with children also made her a soft touch on discipline. Claire had once remarked to him that between Alexandra's hairstyle and attitude, she was like a reincarnation of Cynthia. That comparison was not brought up again after he had pointed out Alexandra was far better at keeping people out of trouble than Cynthia.

Raki looked around, "Another beautiful morning, isn't it?"

The streets were bustling with people, with shop owners shouting to attract customers, better-off residents riding horses through the streets, and shutters opening to bring in the air. It could not be called fresh, for the streets were strewn with trodden horse shit and the remnants of chamber pots. Across the narrow street were three competing bakeries, and out of each wafted an arresting aroma of fresh baked bread almost strong enough to cover up the other smells.

"At least the bakeries cover up the stench," Claire grumbled.

"Out of the way! Make way for the Marquis and Marquise Tierra!"

A cavalryman in a splendid black and white uniform was trotting up the street waving people to the sides.

Alexandra smirked, "Looks like Miata is almost here already. Your Mère and Pèreare going to have to go soon. What do you two say?"

"We'll be good," Teresa optimistically promised.

"Famous last words," Raki murmured. "The last time I heard those, you wound up teaching your brother how to get onto the roof."

"But it was fun," Teresa recklessly remarked.

"Teresa, promise your Père you won't go on the roof again," Claire interjected.

"Why?"

'Not this again,' Raki groaned inwardly.

"Because it's a dangerous thing to do," Claire pointed out.

"Why?"

"Because we said so," Claire snapped, losing patience.

"Why?"

Before they could lose their patience further with Teresa's antics Alexandra intervened.

"Teresa, you don't want to make your parents worry about you every time they're away, otherwise they won't let me come and have fun with you," Alexandra pointed out. "We'll have fun while they're away, but only if you promise your Mèreand Pèrenot to go on the roof."

Teresa nodded, which Raki knew from experience was about as good a promise as they were going to get out of his daughter.

The crowds parted a block away and they heard a thundering of hoofs.

"Looks like our ride is here," Raki remarked. "Alexandra, why don't you take the children back in?"

Alexandra nodded and reached over to the twins.

"Well you got to hand it to Miata and Raul, they certainly know how to make an entrance," Raki admitted at getting a better look at what was coming.

Dietrich grasped the railing as the CSS Cesarski as it recoiled from the impact of firing its cannon once again. The noise, even from five stories up in a platform attached to the warship's main mast, was deafening. Even as she watched, the dark blurs of cannonballs whizzed out from the warship towards an even larger one 300 yards distant. The shots were fired high, and most missed their intended targets, instead tearing through the pirate ship's sails and on rare occasion, through its crew. But a belated shot found its mark and toppled the foremast, its top, along with the three sailors above the where the cannonball had split it, crashing into the sea.

"That's the captain for you," a scruffy-looking veteran marine shouted beside her. "The captain always said it's the smarter man that wins, not the one with the bigger ship."

'That's not always true, you fool,' Dietrich thought.

Sometimes pure strength could not be matched by wits, though it was altogether more deadly when backed by a great intellect like the Cesarzowa's and not the uncaring, never-planning personality of a monster like Priscilla. Had those two fought, the Cesarzowa would have died fighting alone. It was only because Katarzyna Romanowa commanded unrivalled armies of silver-eyed slayers that she would have triumphed had Priscilla come to the mainland.

The wind was picking up now, so strong it threatened to blow off her black bicorn hat. Dietrich grasped it with a hand as the CSS Cesarski angled into the wind. The ship was tacking starboard in order to get a shot at the enemy's stern.

"Look at that, they think their stern cannon is going to stop us," one marine scoffed, mocking the pirates.

The enemy ship was proving slow-to-maneuver with its foremast toppled, but she wasn't standing still either. By the time the CSS Cesarski opened fire, most of her broadside fell short of the pirates' stern. Instead the pirates began a rapid turn while Captain Ferrara reoriented the Cesarski for a pass.

"Come on boys, let's finish these bastards," the first mate bellowed from below.

"Oh hell," not again," Dietrich murmured, noticing the pirate ship was turning around to line up up with the CSS Cesarski for another broadside. The CSS Cesarski, having just pulled up its own anchor, sprang loose to meet the challenge. The Cesarski turned again, but far less than Dietrich expected, setting a path that would take alarming take her in front of the pirate ship's bow. Dietrich could not quite believe her eyes.

"Trim sails," Captain Ferrara shouted from below," and prepare to board!"

Dietrich noticed the crew readying grappling hooks, each of which was attached to a long, sturdy rope. Given the pirates weren't moving at much speed, it seemed Ferrara hoped the grappling hooks' lines would prove enough to grab the enemy ship. Though how he intended to do that while on a course to have them smashed in the side eluded Dietrhc.

The captain's voice carried even as the bow cannon of the two ships opened fire, "Hard to port!"

The CSS Cesarski cut a hard turn to the left, turning straight towards the path of the oncoming pirate ship. Dietrich held on for dear life as the ship's roll left her looking down at the ocean below. The pirates made a desperate left turn to avoid the CSS Cesarski, killing much of their momentum. It wasn't enough, for a moment they struck a glancing blow.

Raki watched as eight black horses, each harnessed, equipped with blinders and their heads topped with red crests pulled a fine black and gold carriage down the street. It was a gaudy display in any city, but particularly here in Rabona, where pulled carriages like this were a recent import from the mainland. Only those of considerable wealth could afford so many horses and servants for such transportation.

"I tell her not to make a scene, and look at this," Claire quietly hissed. "Is she trying to humiliate us?"

"If you'd told her flat out not to come in carriage I think she would have understood what you meant," Raki murmured. "Miata's not one for picking up on subtle hints, Claire."

"I don't like having to spell everything out to the last letter," Claire muttered as Alexandra shepherded the children inside.

"Leave it be, Claire, you know Miata meant well," Raki murmured back to his wife.

Claire had always preferred not having to say everything, and his wife seemed to prefer if everyone behaved and understood things as she did. Claire was bound to be disappointed by other people, and he had long since given up trying to convince her to change that attitude. Claire wasn't going to change her ways unless she wanted to, which she did not.

The carriage was making tremendous noise as it came up the street. Raki was surprised it even fit into the street, but it had. It was large by any standard, and its wheels were very nearly as tall as many men were tall. It was gaudy probably even by Rabona's standards, with its fine wood construction gilded in gold and diamonds. Given that Raul Malaga, the Marquis of Pieta, was a part owner of Pieta's local diamond mine, this was no shock. The carriage came to a jerky stop with its door a few feet before them. Several of the horses snorted in frustration at the driver reining them in. The carriage's driver, dressed in a fine black and white uniform, tipped his hat towards Raki and Claire while a coachman hopped off the carriage's back.

People in the street scurried to the safety of the shops and stone porches to watch. A quartet of armed guards in ceremonial armor rode up on black stallions, forming a perimeter around the carriage and dispersed the crowd further. They made a grand sight; yet more proof that the diamond mine was making its owners unfathomably rich by Rabona's standards. Even Lord Mayor Zaehringen, who had been the wealthiest man in town till Miria's diamond mine came along, couldn't have afforded such trappings of power.

"I see Raul is doing well for himself," Raki commented.

"No commenting on his wealth, and not a word about politics," Claire whispered. "Act grateful and let me do the talking."

Upon the door was plastered with the Tierra family coat of arms. It was split in two, with Miata's invented coat of arms occupying the right half and her husband's occupying the left. Miata's half included the outline of three mountains in the background, with an open eye underneath her warrior symbol. Raul Tierra's was gaudier in Raki's opinion; it included a unicorn head framed by a river and a mountain, with a trio of diamonds in the sky.

The door opened before the coachman could open it and out jumped a young silver-eyed female. She was taller than Claire and even slightly taller than the dark-haired man inside the carriage. She wore no dress but wore black and white, well-decorated leather pants and dark brown riding boots. A belt encrusted with eye-sized diamonds held a short dagger. The shirt appeared to be made of silk and was colored black with white decorations running up and down it. It also scandalously opened in a deep v cut, showing off eye-watering amounts of cleavage, all of it framed by an alluring white lace.

"Miata, good to see you again," Raki warmly greeted her, holding out his hand.

Miata instead greeted him in the new Rabonese tradition with a kiss on both cheeks.

Raki blushed at her greeting. He stepped back and thanked his creators that the latest fashion in Rabona featured trousers with rigid codpieces. Raki quickly tried to hide his embarrassment as Miata turned to Claire.

"So good to see you again, Claire," Miata greeted his wife before kissing her on both cheeks. "You look fabulous."

Claire's annoyed mood vanished, "Why thank you, Miata. I try."

Claire was wearing a smile and a fine black and white-striped gown with a high collar, tight sleeves, which hugged her torso and flowed below the waist. It was conservative, as it came up to her neck, but there was elegance to it. Raki was just glad Claire hadn't asked for another dress like it. He was still afraid she might ask how much it'd cost.

Miata, nearly seventeen now, asked plaintively, "We're not late, are we?"

"Not at all," Raki assured her.

Of the many things he'd predicted would happen after the Organization's fall, Miata turning into the most beautiful silver-eyed female on the island had not been one of them. However for all of her confidence on the battlefield and amazing looks, Miata still showed signs of her old lack of social confidence. It was otherwise hard to see the old Miata in the beautiful young woman before him. It was at that moment when Miata's husband Raul exited the carriage like the virile, athletic man he was. Raul wore a fine blue and white vest and looked every inch the lord he was, was rather different. He had shoulder-length, curly black hair, a well-trimmed beard, a fine nose, and was built like an athlete, with a well-defined jaw. He was nearly a match for his young wife in looks, and as he wrapped his arm about Miata's waist, Raki had to agree they made one hell of an attractive couple. It was no wonder they were so popular with the masses.

"Raki, I hear you're still up to your old tricks in Parlement," Raul rather tactlessly remarked, holding out his hands but smiling. "You must be looking forward to our dear Reine's coronation."

Raki had always gotten the feeling Raul Tierra did not share his political sympathies, and this greeting only helped deepen that suspicion. Thankfully Raul had not yet openly said anything critical in public. Raki had more than enough political rivals as it was.

"Ah, yes," he stumbled, "it is… it is a moment the Queen rather deserves."

"Of course it is," Raul agreed, "though I hear Ruud van Willems is causing some trouble again. Did you hear he wants to raise taxes?"

Claire looked over with a glance that told him all he had to know about her feelings on him saying a word on the matter.

Raki let go of his urge to explain that and simply replied, "No I had not. Shouldn't we get going? It's bound to take awhile to get to Parlement."

Raul smiled, "Of course, of course, just give me a minute. My wife never allows me to smoke these when I'm in the carriage."

Raul took out a long, brown object that looked like rolled paper.

He took a sniff and smiled, "Bretonese cigar. They're as good to smoke as they smell. Don't wait out here on my behalf. Coachman, show our honored guests their seats."

Raki and Claire soon climbed into the carriage, which was even more sumptuously appointed inside than out. The benches appeared to be lined both horizontally and vertically with the finest red velvet, while the floor was a rich, stained maple. The whole interior was trimmed in gold, and by the soft feel of it, Raki judged it genuine gold. Raki noticed Miata had stayed outside with her husband as he lit his cigar.

Raki heard Miata nag her husband, "Must you smoke again?"

"There is nothing dangerous in a man smoking, dear," Raul rebutted, clearly unhappy at her intervention. "Now go entertain our guests and let me—"

Raki's eavesdropping abruptly ended when the coachman shut the carriage's door. Claire was clearly drowsy, yawning enormously. This she followed stretching, reclining her head against the padded carriage bench, and closing her eyes. With his wife clearly uninterested in conversation, Raki turned his eyes back to Miata and Raul, with Miata clearly objecting to Raul's smoking, while Raul in contrast seemed to disregard every word she said. He was much too busy smoking.

'I just don't get it, how could a man ignore his spouse when she looked like that?'

Miata was so pretty it was hard to keep his eyes off her. Because Miata had combined a riding outfit with formalwear, it was impossible to miss her physique. She had long, toned legs, had a posterior was both sculpted by exercise and amply proportioned, waspish hips, a face that was almost angelically beautiful, big eyes with long lashes, and rivaled even the late Deneve in bust. In short, she was built like a man's fantasy; though he was not about to ever say that. Raki left his thoughts unvoiced, keenly aware of just how Claire reacted to him talking about the beauty of other women.

Miata was gesturing more dramatically now, clearly unhappy with Raul's smoking.

Raki sighed and remembered what a priest had once told him, 'All the wealth and beauty in the world cannot buy you happiness if the love you share with another is troubled.'

Dietrich noticed a grappling hook dangling and swaying from the platform above her, which along with the ship was still slowing down from the slow motion sideways collision between the Cesarski and the pirate vessel. Below she could already hear the screams, yells, and gunfire of battle, but not yet the sounds of swords hitting each other. The enemy ship had not yet been boarded.

A surprised marine mouthed, "Where are you going?!"

Dietrich smiled as she climbed the rigging up to the next platform, "Why, I'm going to board the enemy ship, soldier."

The veteran marine scoffed, "From all the way up here? Have you lost your damn mind, slayer? You'll sooner fall to your doom than board from this high up."

"That's where you're—oww!"

Something struck her right leg, and judging from the blood trickling down it, it could only have been a bullet. Dietrich cursed her complacency for pausing to talk and present such a lovely target in the midst of battle. Despite the pain it was not debilitating, but another war injury was not what she needed.

This time Dietrich finished the climb quickly, pushed past the two surprised sailors at this higher platform, and grabbed the grappling hook dangling from a railing edge. The rope felt strong, and the hooks looked to be made of sturdy steel.

"Get out of my way," Dietrich snapped at the bewildered young men.

She tested her footing atop the mizzenmast that held up a massive sail, and when the ship had stopped rocking as much and the screams of melee combat began, Dietrich risked walking out, unsupported, 8 stories above the decks below.

"Don't look down, don't look down," Dietrich mumbled. "Oh fucking hell, why did I want to do this?"

She might have stopped there and gone back but for someone taking a shot at her from the crow's nest of the pirate ship. It grazed her cheek, and for once, Dietrich lost all caution in her anger.

Dietrich growled, "If that's how you want to play it, here I come!"

This time she ran forward atop the long wooden pole, swinging the grappling hook as she went. It sailed over the gap between the ships, looped around the mainmast, and anchored itself. Then, driven more by anger than common sense, she jumped off the CSS Cesarski holding the attached rope and prayed that it would hold.

* * *

><p>The carriage ride to Parlement, where Miria was to be crowned, had been awkward to say the least. When Miata and Raul, the latter smelling of smoke, had finally joined them in the carriage after what looked to have been a lengthy argument, neither was talking to the other. Miata had sat next to her husband, crossed her arms, and glanced over at him and Claire with a strange look. Was it jealousy? It certainly seemed like it might have been, for Claire had been napping on his shoulder as they'd continued along. Strange as it seemed, he and Claire must have seemed to Miata the perfect, happily-married couple. Raki was just glad Miata had not brought up their marriage in conversation. As much as he loved Claire, their marriage was not without its ups and downs, and he'd have hated disappointing Miata's ideal of them.<p>

Soon enough they crossed the Toulouse River on a stone bridge, the central citadel of Rabona coming into view. It loomed large over the western banks of the Toulouse River, its five story fortified walls guarding the seats of power within. It was only after they passed under the northern gatehouse's portcullis and inside when he saw the Parlement across a grand square layered in cobblestones. It was a grand building, built of sandstone and featuring a steep gabled roof. Two large halls dominated its structure, with the one towards the grand entrance running parallel to the square, standing some eight stories tall. Further back an even taller hall peaked out; its side dominated by huge stained glass windows. On opposite ends of the complex were two large, fifteen story towers, the westernmost of which featured a huge hour clock. The other featured a belfry, though Raki had no inkling as to its purpose.

They arrived at Parlement's entrance, where a huge crowd of common folk and dignitaries were gathered, dressed in their best garb. It took a minute to get out, but when they did, he made sure to thank the Tierras for the ride, and walked towards the massive wooden front doors of Parlement with Claire on his arm. The Tierras preceded them and were soon out of sight. Raki noticed guards wielding halberds and wearing ceremonial armor with blue and white-trimmed cloaks were everywhere. He knew who they were at first sight; the Garde du Parlement, the Parlement's protectors.

"It looks like Ruud van Willems is taking no chances," Raki remarked to Claire.

Claire said nothing in response, and continued saying nothing until they were well inside Parlement and it was too noisy for many to hear them talk.

Claire crossed her arms, clearly miffed, "Do you think I'm blind?"

"I never said you were," Raki offered, mystified.

He didn't stay that way long.

Claire snapped, her voice low, "You had your eyes down Miata's cleavage half the trip. Do you think I wouldn't notice?"

Raki was thankful that in all the hubbub no one could overhear their civil problems.

'Oh dear, this is not going to be pretty,' Raki thought.

Raki sighed, "Claire, she was seated opposite me the whole trip. I'm sorry dear, but you know I love you more than anything, so can you just let it go? I would never do anything to hurt you or our children."

"Except that one time with Galatea," Claire murmured, giving him a stern glance.

Claire walked off, and Raki let her go, knowing she would cool down faster without him around. He had always regretted what had happened with Galatea. It had been months before he married Claire, and she'd been busy killing off Yoma elsewhere on the island. Galatea had hosted a gathering of friars, who had brought along their best beer. Many of the friars had brought along their wives, while a few others had forsaken their vows and invited unmarried women to the festivities. Raki had paid this no mind; he was busy getting drunk with Cid, cracking jokes, and having a good time when Galatea had showed up and made advances. She'd been making advances all month without Claire there, but somehow, after lots of drink, it had seemed a good idea to go someplace with her. Soon enough they were at it in a church confession box, where Galatea had ridden him like a wild stallion right up until Claire walked into the church. Claire was actually reduced to a speechless rage as Galatea had run off while he was left explaining how she'd found him with his pants down in a confession box.

Thus Claire had refused to leave his side for a minute of the next month, except when he had to use the chamber pot, which was at least something. He was pretty certain Claire would never let him forget that one moment of drunken weakness for the rest of his days. He was also certain he'd probably never be able to entirely make it up to Claire, no matter how hard he tried.

Raki sighed, put his hands through his hair, and then walked towards the upper galleries of the Parlement's main chamber, where he could watch the festivities. The Parlement building was awash with plush green carpeting, its walls swathed in fine maple woodwork, and its ceilings were dominated by paintings and frescoes of religious stories. Raki climbed a grand stairway wider than his house until finally he reached the dimly lit upper hall to the main chamber's galleries. It was lit only by candlewicks, and at the entrance to the chamber were a pair of Royal Guards, decked out in full armor and blue and gold cloaks.

Raki noticed a man of modest proportions observing things in the chamber near the door. He had short brownish-blond hair, was sumptuously dressed in an outfit of black trimmed with red, and his head was topped by a white cap with red feathers. The man turned around upon hearing his approach, and recognition came immediately.

Raki bowed low, "Votre Majesté".

The king held up a hand in protest while smiling, "Raki, please, no need for formalities here between two old friends."

Cid Malaga was Miria's consort and king, and while not as handsome as Raul Tierra, certainly looked like a royal. Miria had felt it insulting to have her husband referred to as a prince and insisted he be named Roi, or king. It was a strictly ceremonial title though, as Miria was the one who'd been made monarch for life. But given Cid's personality and deep connections with those in power, he'd proven impossible to ignore. He'd also shown his true character when he'd rescued Raki's children from the fanatics who'd tried to overthrow Parlement. He was nothing short of a hero in Raki's opinion, though still rather cocky.

"Of course, Majesté," Raki smiled, informal as he dared.

It was obvious from the way to Raki that the king had had this particular hall to the Parlement's eastern gallery cleared. Guards he had not seen previously jumped into view to stop several oblivious commoners from climbing the stairs.

"I suppose I'm going to have to get used to all the formality," Cid sighed.

Cid walked forward, arms out, and gave Raki a friendly hug before pulling back.

"I saw you and the missus were having quite the conversation," the king stated flatly. "Whatever have you done to offend to offend our dear Claire?"

Raki sighed, "She caught me looking down Miata's cleavage."

"A blind man would be caught looking down Miata's cleavage," Cid deadpanned. "Let's face facts Raki; the only men who wouldn't get caught staring at Miata's chest are eunuchs. Claire will get over it, so long as you didn't put a hand down all that cleavage."

"I have better self-control than that," Raki chuckled.

Cid walked to the darkened entrance to the main chamber, his eyes following the socializing, "Still, I almost feel sorry for the girl."

That caught Raki off-guard, "You feel sorry for Claire?"

Cid slapped him merrily on the back, "Claire? Bah! Claire can take care of herself. I'm talking about Miata. My wife has the same problem."

Raki walked up to the darkened entranceway to Parlement's eastern gallery and followed Cid's gaze. Raki noticed Miata and Raul were in the lower western gallery, busily talking with well-heeled socialites and well-wishers. Miata was drawing the eyes of very nearly every man nearby, while Raul obliviously missed this, or perhaps he was ignoring it. Even at this distance Miata's ample assets were easy enough to spot.

Raki looked at Miata and shook his head, "Your Grace, I'm sorry, but what problem would that be?"

Cid patted him on the back, smiling, "It's a problem most women either harp on or won't admit to having; they're both gaining weight."

"Oh," Raki murmured, making a realization as he looked at Miata again.

Miata was certainly not flabby in the least, which was understandable given how much she worked out, but she was rather shapelier than normal for a claymore. Compared to Helen, he would not be able to describe Miata as particularly skinny.

Cid put up his hands, "Miria somehow thinks it is poor etiquette not to eat if I am eating, and our chefs have figured out all her favorite foods. It's a non-stop rain of cherry pies, chicken hollandaise, fruit salads, seared salmon and more. Raul tells me Miata has the same problem. The damn chefs are stuffing them so full of food that even working out five hours a day is not enough. The real issue with Miria is she won't admit that there's a problem."

Raki commented delicately, "She didn't look like she'd gained much around her waist the last I saw her last month."

Cid was not so delicate, "Her waist has still grown, but her real problem is she's putting most of it into her chest. She's half again as large there as she was a year ago, and nobody wants to tell her this is a problem. Miata at least buys new clothes; my wife is so in denial she slams the door on me whenever I mention it. It's gotten so bad I've had to bribe her seamstresses to adjust things under her nose, otherwise she'd be spilling out of her dresses by now. I keep hoping she'll get out of denial about it, but I've had no luck."

Raki heard a rustle below and saw a middle-aged man dressed in the white and gold robes of the Rabona Orthodox Church be stopped below by a pair of Royals Guardsmen. He was white-haired, with piercing blue eyes that and a charismatic presence.

Cid waved the priest forward, "Good to see you again, Bishop Paulus."

"As it is you, Votre Majesté," Paulus said with a serious face.

"This my friend, Monsieur Raki Lautrec," Cid remarked, gesturing. "Raki, this is Bishop Paulus, Bishop of Southern Toulouse and spiritual advisor to the Crown."

"A pleasure," Paulus greeted him, holding out a hand.

Raki was surprised but gladly shook the Bishop's hand

The king seemed to take in Paulus' seriousness, "What can I do for you, Bishop?"

"I've been sent by Her Royal Majesty. There's been an incident in Lautrec that requires your attention. If you'll follow me," Paulus said, motioning down the stairs.

"We'll have to chat some other time, Raki," Cid sighed, sounding apologetic.

With that the king and Bishop Paulus left, walking down the stairs, where at the bottom a hidden door was opened by the Garde Royale. They disappeared from view through it, but not before drawing a small crowd's attention. Seconds later the Garde Royale shut the wooden door from the inside and left the crowd excitedly talking in their wake. It wouldn't be long before they came up to the upper eastern gallery, where row upon row of open seats awaited.

Raki walked to the main chamber's entrance to enjoy the as yet unspoiled view. The Parlement chamber's ceiling was shaped like an upside down v and lined was ornamented trusses. The chamber itself was in the shape of a long oval, with a stadium-like seating for the gallery above the main floor. Four rows of wooden benches on the main floor were arranged below the galleries like a 'u', each row descending a little lower until it reached the central floor. In this way all members had a good view of each other, with differing factions sitting in different sections of the chamber. Lighting all of this was the light coming through the chamber's tall, immense stained glass windows, each full of religious devotional art. At the chamber's far end were two chairs. One was the great, ornamented wooden chair for the non-partisan speaker of the chamber. Above it, on a raised, red-carpeted platform several steps higher than the main floor, was an otherworldly sight.

"By the gods," Raki murmured in shock.

Cid had mentioned that they'd spared no expense in crafting Miria a throne worthy of her nickname. In Raki's opinion the massive throne that overlooked the speaker's chair several steps below and the rest of the chamber was worthy for someone nicknamed the "Diamond Queen".

The throne's back was twice as tall as the tallest person near it, and topping the throne was a flawless, circular sapphire the size of a man's head. It was surrounded by an array of long, sculpted jewels in the shape of flower petals. While the throne's seat and seatback were padded in rich red velvet, the rest of the throne was solid gold and fine gems. Its huge armrests were molded in the shape of sphinx heads, their eyes represented by large red rubies, and each held a flawless blue sapphire the size of a grapefruit in their gold jaws. Throughout the rest of the throne wing motifs and fine gems colored blue, yellow, red, green and white were displayed in a colossal display of artistic patterns and mind-blowing wealth.

There were times when he and Cid seemed to have the world in common with one another, and they were true friends after all. Yet he couldn't help but notice that increasingly Cid and Miria lived in a different universe when it came to money. They'd been as poor as anyone else just after the Organization had fallen. Miria had had the good fortune and foresight to invest in a 'hobby mine' near Pieta with several other claymores. The miners discovered a motherlode of diamonds so rich Raki had heard foreign merchants saying that the queen now owned half the world's diamond supply. As he observed the Parlement fill up with dignitaries for Miria's coronation, he could only pray it hadn't corrupted their morals.

* * *

><p>Dietrich had only just managed to climb atop the pirate ship's mizzenmast and its rigging when a sailor came slashing at her. She had neither the balance nor the time to draw her claymore, so instead she whipped out a throwing knife. It took the young pirate in the throat, which he grasped at futilely before collapsing, falling, and hitting the deck below with a sickening crunch.<p>

The sound of a bullet whizzing alerted Dietrich to the five pirates with muskets situated in the platform above her. She nearly fell off the mizzenmast when one fired and missed her feet, his shot blasting out splinters from the mizzenmast. The men were upon a platform two stories above her, which gave them a superb firing position against her. Unfortunately, because she lacked enough balance, using her claymore to simply chop off the mast below their platform wasn't an option. That left only taking them out the hard way.

One of the sailors had lit his musket's matchlock fuse, and swung the weapon in her direction. Dietrich was still faster, though it took three attempts, by which point the man had cocked the trigger to fire, before a knife gruesomely slammed into his forehead. He didn't even yell out as he slumped out of sight. The others took the hint and ducked down as she threw two more knives to keep them preoccupied. It was when she reached for another that her hands found only two knives left.

"Just my luck," Dietrich hissed. "Well, so much for that approach."

Not wishing to give the remaining four pirates in the platform time to prepare, Dietrich made a gutsy jump from the mizzenmast. It carried her up and with her best effort, she just managed to not fall after landing upon the narrow wooden platform railing. The platform itself was formed in a circle around the massive mast, and the four armed pirates within it came at her immediately. One attempted to stab her in the chest with his short sword, charging headlong at her. Dietrich merely re-directed his blade with a dagger and then used her strength to aid his momentum. A moment later the surprised and screaming pirate toppled over the edge and out of sight, his screams ending with a sharp thud seconds later.

The second of the men to come at her was older and wilier, and all he attempted to do was slash her open from hips to shoulders. For his efforts, Dietrich dodged by jumping off the platform edge and killing a third, bearded pirate with a devastating kick to the head. She drew her blade, turned and with a vicious three-quarter turn, took the head off her prior attacker. That left just the final pirate to deal with, but when she turned, he found him cowering in fear, huddled in a fetal position, his hands held up in surrender.

"Mercy, mercy please," he said.

This pirate was in truth not much more than teenage boy in a sailor's outfit, and he made a miserable sight, from his scruffy goatee to his scrawny frame. Though she did not know Bretonese, it was obvious he had surrendered. It was when Dietrich realized she hadn't even thought about the lives she'd ended previously that the sour truth of how much experience had changed her sunk in.

"Fine, you don't want to fight, then you won't need these will you?"

Dietrich grabbed his sword, a knife, and all the remaining muskets and threw them out and down into the sea far below. As she looked down, the deck of the pirate ship was suddenly swarmed by a huge press of marines and sailors from the CSS Cesarski. The pirates desperately fought back, the din of melee battle loud even from eight stories up.

A shout rang out, "Protect the captain!"

It took only a moment to locate Captain Ferrara, who, along with another sailor, were sword-dueling with three pirates. They were separated by a crush of men from much of the CSS Cesarski's crew. Dietrich began looking for a quick way down and found it in the form of a hook attached to a set of hanging weights via a rope and pulley. The sailor at Ferrara's side lunged at one of the pirates but was instead cut down.

Dietrich didn't wait for Ferrara to be cut down next. Instead she jumped to the platform's edge, grabbed hold of the hook dangling from the pulley, and pushed off the platform with both feet. Almost miraculously, her hare-brain scheme worked, for the pulley held her weight. With an effort, she chopped one of the weights holding her up. She began to move downwards, but at a snail's pace. Dietrich risked chopping one more weight, and this time she began moving down at a vigorous pace. She swung her body, timed her release of the hook, and with fortuitous luck, landed upon the back of a pirate threatening Ferrara.

He was slammed to the deck, unconscious, though he'd slowed her enough, and neither of her legs broke. They still hurt quite badly though, the sting of impact all too strong.

She yelled at curly-haired Ferrara, who was missing hit captain's hat, "Get down!"

With no more warning than that, Dietrich crouched and swung her sword high and three-quarters of a turn around her body. The two sailors were bisected, their innards and blood spraying out in a gruesome arc upon the deck. The corpses hit the deck in a gruesome fashion.

She had no time to savor her scheme paying off, for the next moment Dietrich felt a terrible sting in her behind followed by a trickle of warm blood. She swung her sword but found it bisecting nothing but air, her shooter being some five yards out of range. He was grasping two pistols, one of which was smoking from its recent discharge. He raised the other and took aim at her forehead.

There was a booming discharge of smoke around her suddenly, and somehow, Dietrich found herself to still be alive.

"I told you these things come in handy," Captain Ferrara commented, lowering the smoking pistol in his right hand. "You can thank me later."

Dietrich snapped, "Thank you? I'm the one who just saved your life—"

"We don't have time for this pettiness, Countess," Ferrara countered, pointing to the raging battle still on the deck. "You have to help Wen against their warrior."

"Their warrior?"

Dietrich looked to the battle and saw Wen Jintao battling another of her kind dressed like any other pirate. Only this warrior was wielding a huge double-bladed weapon against Wen's sword and dagger. One edge of the weapon featured a double-sided axe, while the other featured a long spearpoint. This male warrior had nearly waist-long blond hair and was heavily built. He was also emitting no yoma energy that she could detect.

'No wonder I couldn't feel his presence,' Dietrich thought.

She quickly felt the wound in her behind, found the bullet, and tossed it aside and did her best to heal while she jogged forward. The momentum was clearly in favor of the Cesarski's crew, who were pressing forward now with an almost irresistible force. That was an illusion though; if the enemy's warrior triumphed against her and Wen, there was every chance the pirates would win.

When a pirate took a swing at her as she rushed into the crowded battle towards Wen Jintao and the pirates' warrior, one pirate took a swing at her with his sword. She didn't have room to cut him in half in such a cramped space without taking several of the Cesarski's men with him. Instead Dietrich deflected the blow, raised her sword high and brought it flat-side down atop the man's head. He crumpled under the blow. She noticed the enemy warrior barely dodge a vicious diagonal slash from Jintao. His counter barely missed splitting open Jintao's head. Fearing the worst, she pressed on to help.

Dietrich lost sight of them as a throng of men came between them, battling for their lives. She had little time to spare, but alternatively punched one pirate down before deflecting the blade of another meant for a junior officer of the Cesarski. She caught another glimpse of Jintao and the enemy warrior battling up high on the foredeck. The men on both sides were keeping well clear of the action. But one pirate took advantage of the Lieutenant Commander's distraction and took out a pistol to fire upon him from the side.

Jintao reacted instantly, spinning and throwing his dagger at the same time to take out the pirate, and then dodged the pirate warrior's attempt to attack. Jintao tried to take advantage of his enemy's suddenly exposed neck with a stab of his sword. The pirate warrior was ready, first deflecting the sword with the spear-end of his weapon, while at the same time swinging around the axe. The parry both defeated Jintao's attack and ended with his beheading in one fluid movement. Dietrich was left breathless at the skill on display.

Those men of the Cesarski who were anywhere near the man fled back towards the main battle, while the few pirates left nearby shied away from attacking her. She was not in the best position, being in a lower position with her sword drawn. She knew it was going to take all of her skill to take down her opponent. She shifted into a combat stance and instead waited for him.

The pirate warrior turned and mocked her in Comnenian, "Scared, little one?"

Dietrich scoffed, "Only a fool would charge an enemy in a higher position."

"Clever girl," he complimented her.

Without any warning the larger warrior charged and leaped down from the forecastle at her. He brought his axe down at her, which Dietrich dodged by rolling to the left. She came to her feet and aimed at slash at the man's head. This he deflected with the same move she'd seen him use earlier to kill Jintao. Dietrich was ready for it, and used the pommel of her blade to deflect the attempted counterattack.

"You learn quick, but you should know a sword is no weapon to take on a man wielding an axe," her opponent stated, sounding bemused.

With that he came at her with a ferocity she'd never seen before, the overwhelming weight and strength behind the axe forcing her to retreat again and again, unable to do anything more than parry. She retreated up the steps to the small forecastle at the bow, but her positioning did not matter. The reach and weight of the axe was simply too overwhelming, and if she didn't think of a way to do more than parry, she'd soon go the way of Jintao. She flung one of her last remaining throwing knives at him, which he barely managed to deflect in time. This bought her enough time to aim a downwards swing at her enemy. He caught this on his weapon's center pole, which was evidently built from duratium the way it was holding up to her blade. With a surge in strength he pushed her and her blade up and away. Dietrich went soaring, painfully crashed through the forecastle's wooden railing, and landed painfully upon her back.

Her head ached and was fogged by impact upon the deck.

"The sea is no place for little warriors," the male slayer lectured, hopping down onto the main deck. "A lesson you sadly will not live to learn."

He raised his axe as he rushed forward. A blinding flash of smoke and fire hid the warrior from view for a second, but when it cleared, the male warrior had slumped to his knees, a gush of blood coming out from under his jaw. Dietrich's right hand kept shakily holding the discharged, smoking pistol she had nearly forgotten.

The male warrior gasped, "Have you no honor?"

He collapsed, face-first, onto the deck a moment later, his head at her feet, dead.

A shout went up, "The ship is ours!"

A ragged cheer went up behind Dietrich, followed by the sounds of pirates dropping their remaining weapons and surrendering. Dietrich for her part was just thankful to be alive, her heart beating hard. Captain Ferrara walked into view on her left side and surveyed the dead warrior at her feet.

He remarked dryly, "I did say you were going to need that pistol, didn't I?"


	2. Chapter 2: A Day to Remember

**Chapter 2:**

**A Day to Remember**

* * *

><p><em>The Rise of the Romanows<em>

_By C. Havel_

_Katarzyna Romanowa's life story is well-known to people inside and outside the Romanow Empire, but that "story" differs radically depending on the nationality of those portraying her. Imperial historians like to start her life story by pointing out that she was the great-granddaughter of Comnenian royal Roi Augustyn IV. Bretonese historians in contrast scoff at her "royal pretensions" and have a tendency to portray her background as that of an ambitious family determined to rise "beyond their station". So which family background correctly portrays Katarzyna's ancestry? While the Imperial historians are far more accurate, there are a few kernels of truth in Bretonese portrayals._

_Sixty-eight years before her ascension as Empress, Katarzyna's great-grandfather King Augustyn IV reigned over the mighty Kingdom of Comnenia. It was seen as one of two de facto leading states of the Alliance of Nations alongside the crumbling Bengali Empire. A kind, forgiving, intellectual sybarite, Augustyn was ill-suited to the kind of ruthless decision-making and austerity demanded by the Great War. His younger brother Stanislaw in contrast was a competent general used to privation, often drank with his troops, and was popular with both officers and the people. It was thus understandable that when Stanislaus overthrew his older brother in a bloodless coup and became Stanislaw II, it was accepted. Augustyn IV soon thereafter died in prison, but whether of illness or murder we do not know._

_He left behind a single five-year old daughter, Augustyna, who was stripped of her royal title and raised by a noble family of merchants selected for their loyalty to Stanislaw II. It was eighteen years later that a scandal rocked the household, for Augustyna was found to be pregnant. Although she never said the father's name, the best evidence points to one of the merchantman's youngest sons, Baron Henryk Romanow. Augustyna's son, Bernard, was raised as an illegitimate nobleman's son and ignored as a potential threat by Stanislaw II's son, Lech I, but contemporary accounts suggest Bernard was very aware of the open secret of his royal ancestry. He was technically an illegitimate commoner, though one of both royal birth. When his mother mysteriously disappeared not long after the ascension of Lech II, Bernard found himself drafted into the Alliance Army Officer Corps._

_He managed to survive his years in combat and fell in love with a dark-skinned Bantu woman named Faraja Luguongo. The couple was married 30 years before Katarzyna's ascension, while their daughter was born some 27 years before her rise to the throne. Katarzyna was treated more like a son than a daughter, according to contemporary accounts, possibly due to her being Bernard's only child. She was driven hard to succeed by her mother and tutors, especially right before her father got home from the war. Bernard inherited his father's estate upon his death and was reportedly uninterested in drawing attention to his ancestry and possibly superior claim to the Comnenian throne. He was technically only a commoner, after all, even if he was a commoner of royal blood. His wife apparently began dangerously boasting of her daughter's regal ancestry to friends. Few of them, when interviewed decades later, expressed much surprise when Bernard Romanow disappeared and…_

* * *

><p>"We have seen a third of our peers laid off, our salaries frozen, even as our workload has jumped dramatically. The situation is becoming intolerable," a man grumbled.<p>

James Havel had all the patience in the world for protecting the Romanow imperial family against threats. What he found more aggravating was when their servants had the temerity to produce a litany of complaints that forced the Cesarzowa to intervene. He was standing behind the Cesarzowa, who was seated in a chair at the bottom of a large amphitheater. They were deep inside the Visegrad Imperial Palace, and seated all around were countless palace servants who had all signed a letter of protest at the current state of affairs. Given his role as a Silver Guard, it was only natural he was in full armor and only steps away from the head of the family he was sworn to protect.

The silver-eyed empress raised a white-gloved hand, "I understand your objections an am fully prepared to do something about them."

Someone blurted out, "Then stop firing us!"

Katarzyna Romanowa rose to her feet and with a hint of threat in her voice fiercely reminded her subordinates, "If you want me to address your complaints, then that kind of address will end now, do I make myself clear to all of you?"

The thousands of servants in the amphitheater fell silent, utterly and totally cowed. It was not hard to see why. Katarzyna Romanowa was tall, even for a slayer, which was especially noticeable now, since she was wearing the stunning black and gold-braided uniform of an army officer. The trousers accentuated her statuesque proportions. Atop her head was an elegant black and gold tri-corn hat, but it was her face that truly caught the eye. She had big, observant silver eyes, fine blond eyebrows, a modest aquiline nose, and upon one of her well-proportioned cheeks was an arresting brand of a number, "3141", that she had carried since becoming a warrior. Hers was a face of beauty marred, arresting enough to catch the eye and scarred enough to make her look quite intimidating when angered.

Katarzyna left out a breath and relaxed before continuing, "I appreciate everything that you do for both the imperial family and the state. You call yourselves 'mere' maidservants, butlers, cooks, maids, and stable boys, but you are so much more. It is your work that allows the work of the state. When I receive a foreign emissary, it is the maidservants that keep everything clean and organized, our cooks who feed our guests, our butlers who handle protocol, our translators who make discussions possible, and our stable boys who look after our guests' horses and carriages. You are not just mere cleaners and cooks; your work is what enables our country to function each and every day."

'To think that she claims she's not a politician,' James thought, almost smiling. He along with a trio of other Silver Guards was arrayed around the Cesarzowa's elegant wooden chair, which had a solid oak back topped by a façade of wooden wolf heads.

"I do not mean to treat you badly, but you all know these are trying times," the Cesarzowa explained, sighing. "For over a century our land has been at war racking up a hideous amount of debt. We were victorious, but it came at a price, and that was a huge amount of debt and deficit. I can't make progress on our debt until this country's government lives within its means. That's why the army has been cut to five million men from fourteen, why the Crown has sold off sixteen palaces it didn't need, why our embassies have to make do with fewer staff and smaller budgets, and why I had to trim back the number of staff working here at the imperial palace in Visegrad. We are making good progress on curbing our deficit thanks to your sacrifice."

James could feel the toxic mood he sensed earlier easing with the Cesarzowa's charm offensive. Katarzyna may have been hated by her enemies, but she had a way with mollifying subordinates' and inspiring loyalty he'd never seen anyone else match.

The Cesarzowa looked any and all who dared straight back, her face full of understanding and empathy, "I know I push you hard, and I know what it's like to face hardship, but I ask you to face them now only because we have no other choice. You are our nation's last line of defense in protecting secrets and the secrets you keep are saving the lives of our fighting men, diplomats and spies abroad every day. I have not forgotten that it was because of servants serving in this palace that we have foiled five foreign spying attempts this year, nor have I forgotten that each and every day I trust the life of my son and heir to some of your capable hands. It may seem at times like your work is forgotten, but I can assure you, your job isn't just to be a cook or a maid, but to keep this realm running, well-governed and safe from our enemies."

James noticed, as he adjusted his heavy duratium armor, that a few of the maidservants had tears of appreciation in their eyes.

"What I can promise you going forward is there will be no more layoffs and that you will soon all be receiving a raise equal to 1/20th of your wages, because you deserve it," the Cesarzowa finished.

The amphitheater, lit from above by a huge skylight, bathed the Cesarzowa in sunlight as she soaked in the appreciative clapping of her servants. James however felt tense; there was a reason why he and five others were within a few paces of their sovereign. Although it was unlikely a palace servant would make an attempt on the Cesarzowa's life, there had already been two attempts on her life. The Silver Guard took no chances now; everyone in the room had been searched for weapons before being let in, but even that was no guarantee of safety. Her enemies badly wanted her dead because she was the most devastatingly effective foe any of them had ever faced.

A silver-eyed lady-in-waiting, dressed in an elegant, full-length, dark green dress walked across the amphitheatre's marble floor and whispered in the empress' left ear.

"Of course I'll get to that, Alejandra," the Cesarzowa commented sideways before turning her attention back to her audience. "I am sorry I must leave you all now. I know things have been tough, but I promise you, there will be better days ahead. I bid you all a fond farewell."

With a wave, the empress turned to leave, and a small crush of well-wishers surged forward. Those who had been more critical seemed mollified and hung back, easing his concern, but only modestly.

James snapped, "Link arms!"

The full armored Silver Guards immediately formed an armored barrier around the Cesarzowa as she walked towards the main exit.

"Gods bless you, Cesarzowa," a maidservant cried out, extending out a hand.

James' heart skipped a beat when the Cesarzowa held out her own hand and gave her admirer a friendly handshake. After a few friendly handshakes, an endearing smile and a few waves to the crowd, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief when she exited the room. Surrounded by Alejandra, himself and two score Silver Guards, they set off into the maze of hallways that made up the grand and opulent imperial palace of Visegrad.

It was clear from the way the Cesarzowa was walking quickly through the marble & fresco-adorned halls of the palace that she had something on the mind.

James spoke up as he walked just behind her right shoulder, "Cesarzowa, I must request that you stop with this 'working the room'. I cannot guarantee your safety with you—"

Katarzyna sounded bemused but didn't turn to address him, "A Cesarzowa can ill-afford to have those looking after her child to be unhappy with her. What would you have me do, not touch or be seen by anyone, James? I know I pay you to protect me, but a Cesarzowa must above all be seen by her subjects."

'Useless like always,' James silently fumed. 'I swear she has a fatalist streak.'

Katarzyna's neatly tied ponytail swayed as she turned her head left to her lady-in-waiting walking alongside, "Now then, Alejandra, what other business was there?"

Alejandra , or as James knew her, Alejandra Capriles, was a shorter-than-average, svelte-looking silver-eyed warrior who had been granted the title of "Cesarzowa's Lady-in-waiting". In truth, Alejandra acted more like the Cesarzowa's personal aide and chief of staff than a lady-in-waiting. James was pretty sure the title was only anachronistic because Katarzyna's husband, Wenceslaus, was so fond of the ideals of chivalry.

Alejandra did not smile but instead showed the Cesarzowa a paper, "Ambassador Tuluzy requests permission to fund the giving of a coronation present to Miria, the new Reine of Toulouse. He states that a gift for the coronation is considered customary from one monarch to another and that to not give—"

"I get his point," Katarzyna snapped, losing patience. "You may tell him we will fund a gift to the new monarch, but it must be within reason. The last thing we need is to be giving away our treasury to a woman who is already fabulously wealthy. I will leave it to his discretion…"

Alejandra scribbled furiously with a pen on a notepad as the party turned right into the palace's grand hall. A number of surprised foreign dignitaries and guests rushed to make room for them, several of them bowing from the waist respectfully.

A chorus of obsequious "Cesarzowa" and "Your Imperial Majesty" rang out as the Cesarzowa acknowledged them with a simply reply, "Good day, gentlemen."

James eyed the well-dressed dignitaries warily before his eyes turned back to the magnificent sight before them. The Visegrad Palace's Grand Hall was truly awe-inspiring, for it stood some twelve stories from arched ceiling to marble floor. It was lit by a long line of arched stained glass windows, each one depicting a scene of the glorious history of the Comnenian royal family, whom the Cesarzowa claimed as ancestors. These windows let in a glorious cascade of light in, showing the Grand Hall's features in the best possible way. The Grand Hall was almost as wide as a stadium, and clustered at either edge of its walls were marble statues of the Kings and Queens of the Kingdom of Comnenia facing inwards. The kings stood on one side, while their queens, of whom there were definitely more, graced the opposite side.

They were just walking past the statue of Stanislaus II when Katarzyna stopped and turned back to Alejandra, "Forget what I said about him using his discretion to get Reine Miria a coronation gift. Get her a full-length dress worthy of a royal, preferably black with gold trim, in the Busani style."

"Of course, Cesarzowa," Alejandra acknowledged, scribbling furiously before brushing aside a few bangs from the tip of her pointy nose.

Katarzyna commented, "Gods know she needs it after what I saw her wearing when I met her. I swear she was about to fall out of that dress she wore. A royal should not be dressed in such a slutty manner."

Alejandra interjected, "Your Grace, that style of dress is the fashion in Toulouse."

The Cesarzowa shook her head as they kept walking towards a grand entranceway to another, smaller hall, "A woman in power ought to know better than to flaunt herself in such a way. It's the surest way not to be taken seriously, especially a monarch."

James didn't say a word, but he was still fairly sure few people would dare to not take a silver-eyed female monarch seriously due to eye-watering dresses. He heard the noise of children at play and suddenly a quintet of silver-eyed children came racing out of the entranceway.

A brown-skinned male Silver Guard warned as he caught one by the shoulders, "Easy now there, kids. You shouldn't go running around and run into your Cesarzowa."

"It's alright, Lewis, they're children," the empress instructed. "Let them play."

The silver-eyed children rushed past, oblivious, and James noticed that one of the children had long, curly white hair.

'I'm going to have to rein Chloe in when I get off today,' he noted disapprovingly.

Chloe was his only child, and although he kept making it his goal to instill some discipline in her, he never managed it. He hustled back to the Cesarzowa's side after noticing he was lagging behind. A pair of golden, embossed doors opened before them, and standing at opposite sides of a circular table were two members of the Romanow family arguing with one another. James could instantly read the annoyance of the empress at this situation.

A silver-eyed female with an ornate hairbun was hectoring a much larger man, "You are in no position to order me around, Wenceslaus, particularly given you have absolutely no claim to the throne but through your—"

Katarzyna interjected, "Are the two of you quite done wasting your time arguing?"

The argument died instantly, leaving the two participants in an uneasy truce.

"Apologies dear," Wenceslaus apologized, "but a certain individual made claims that I considered unbecoming of a Romanow."

Wenceslaus looked like he had been built out of trees turned into flesh. He was a muscularly built man, a fact that was obvious even though he was covered as he was by a fine golden vest, black trousers, and loose white sleeves. He had a jaw that, according to one female Silver Guard James had heard commenting, "Looked like it was shaped from an anvil." He kept a well-trimmed brown-blond beard and looked every bit an emperor, especially given he stood around 2 meters tall by James' estimation. Wenceslaus was perhaps the strongest warrior in history, which had made him a natural match for a silver-eyed empress.

Wenceslaus' female opponent scoffed, "I—"

The Cesarzowa interjected, "Am not about to waste more of my time on this, I trust, Bastia? We have more pressing issues than your disagreements. Indira Raheja, who tried to kill members of this family, has been located deep in the Bengal."

Bastia Romanowa murmured darkly, "I remember, Your Imperial Majesty."

Bastia had every right to find the memory terrible, for she'd been giving birth to her twin boys when the elite warriors Indira Raheja, Minhae Choung Park, Sergei Djugashvili and their supporters had attempted a coup. It ended with Sergei dead by the empress' hand, Indira fleeing northeast to the Bengal, and Minhae fleeing west and then overseas. Bastia understandably had been advocating the assassination of all the remaining traitors, especially Indira and Minhae.

The doors to the room were closed, after which the empress' de facto aide Alejandra quietly went around the room handing out a small sliver of papers to Bastia and Wenceslaus.

The empress seated herself in a comfortable chair and folded her hands together, "Indira Raheja, our spies tell us, has taken refuge with the Nawab of Bamiya, north of the Bengali Kush. She's gathered nearly two hundred traitorous silver-eyed warriors under her command and believes her services to the Nawab will keep her safe. She is gravely mistaken."

"You mean to have her assassinated," Wenceslaus surmised, sounding unhappy.

"I mean to have her brought to justice," Katarzyna answered, unperturbed. "Minhae and her minions were responsible for the deaths of seven hundred and three innocent people. I receive letters from their relatives daily, asking me when those responsible for their terrible loss will ever be avenged. I am not about to let them down."

Bastia surprisingly objected, "Just how do we intend to get our assassins past two hundred pairs of silver eyes and the Nawab's army?"

Katarzyna smiled, "We're not using assassins."

Wenceslaus sounded relieved when he asked, "Then what is the plan?"

"It's very simple," the empress explained, "I've tired of Nawab Sharif's little game with employing our traitors. It's time he was permanently replaced. Marshal Singh will be leading a hundred thousand man army and five hundred warriors into the Bengal to see that it happens."

Wenceslaus pointed out, "The Bretonese won't be happy. The West Bengal Trading Company's lands border the Nawab's; they'll see this is as a provocation."

"I don't care if I'm not exactly making them happy," Katarzyna quietly reminded him. "This is about justice, not what the Bretonese feel about how it's obtained."

Bastia asked in a silky-smooth voice, "And what if Indira Raheja attempts to flee to the Bretonese?"

"Then you and your 'hunting party' of Silver Guards will get the opportunity to remind Indira that a Romanow never forgets," Katarzyna replied in a cold voice.

* * *

><p>"Claire, Claire, over here!"<p>

Claire turned her head left in the direction of the female voice. She had a hard time seeing through the crush of dignitaries and their wives in the Parlement's western gallery. It took a moment to see the silver-eyed lady waving over the crush of the Rabonese crowd. She was noticeable through the crowd by her scarlet dress with white lace. Claire weaved her way through the crowd until finally they came face to face with her long-haired former comrade.

"Audrey, sorry, I didn't see you," Claire greeted her friend.

They exchanged kisses on the cheek as greetings, which seemed to transfix a few foreign ladies nearby. Claire gave them a quick stare, which promptly ended that.

Claire gasped upon seeing Audrey's flat belly, "How in the world did you manage it? You gave birth just two weeks ago."

Claire felt envious; it had taken her six weeks after Dominique had been born to lose her belly flab through rigorous exercise and training.

Audrey glanced down, "Well I worked out, Claire."

Audrey paused to swat away a bang from her aquiline nose before whispering, "But to be honest, half of it was just that I lose weight easily. The other half was all Andrei."

It took a moment for Audrey's words to sink in, but Claire found herself blushing nonetheless. Audrey, whom she was becoming close with, immediately picked up on this.

Audrey quietly lectured, her words unheard in the din around them, "Blushing? Really, Claire? Weren't you the one telling me it's hard to let a day go by without at least two flings with Raki? You didn't have a problem discussing these sorts of things last week."

"I'm sorry, Audrey, it's just…"

"Come on, I can tell something's wrong," Audrey commented, leading Claire forward by a hand to a small area fenced off by a knee-high banister.

Inside this area were six plush black and gold seats, each adorned with a golden, double-headed imperial eagle. Claire immediately recognized it as the exclusive seating area for the Romanow Ambassador's party, although no one was seated in it yet.

"It's alright, take a seat," Audrey reassured, dropping Claire into a seat while she sat herself upon the seat next to it. "I'll tell Andrei that you're our honored guest. Oh, silly me, let's not forget about Raki either. Speaking of Raki, just where is he?"

Audrey had always been at picking up on her moods, so Claire instead angrily confessed, "I caught him staring down Miata's cleavage like some sort of glutton. I was in the same carriage and it was like I barely existed! I've had three children by him and he can't keep his eyes off another female!"

"Easy, Claire, we wouldn't want her to hear you," Audrey replied, pointing her index finger and tapping it upon the banister.

Claire leaned over to find Miata and her husband Raul walking around amongst the gallery seating a story below below sharing hands with their well-wishers. Claire felt a twinge of unease upon noticing how transfixed all the men were by Miata's beauty. Miata had the look said to be most desired by Rabonese men. She had an almost angelic face, a long neck, a voluptuous body and a bosom any woman would envy, a thin waist and wider hips, and long, beautifully toned legs. Claire knew from the mirror Raki bought her she had nowhere near as many of the features desired by most Rabonese men, a fact that had given her nightmares.

"We may not be able to compete with that," Audrey quietly commented, "but so long as she's married all you have to do is keep Raki away from the temptation. Speaking of which, did I not warn you against accepting a carriage ride from her?"

"I'm sorry," Claire apologized, "I should have listened."

"That's what you get for ignoring my advice," Audrey lectured quietly, the din covering their conversation from being eavesdropped.

"I'm not letting Raki get away with this; I've decided he's not getting anything from me for the rest of the week," Claire declared, crossing her arms upon noticing Raki walk into the upper gallery on the chamber's opposite side.

Audrey leaned in close, "Whoa, let's slow down and think about this, Claire. Your husband is one of four silver-eyed males on this entire island. What do you think will happen if you hold out on him and one of your fifteen unmarried peers hears he's unhappy with you?"

Claire felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, which gurgled noisily.

"Precisely my point," Audrey agreed. "You don't want to be like Galk. He married for sin, Claire. The whole point of a marriage is to procreate, not just to enjoy married life's conjugal benefits. That's the only explanation for his stupid decision to marry four claymores with whom he can't conceive."

'God I hope she never says this to Miria,' Claire thought.

Cid was not silver-eyed, and therefore could not father children on the Reine, a situation that raised all sorts of awkward questions, not least about the succession.

Audrey continued ranting, "Galk's sinful ways got back to him eventually. Marriages built on sin never last. That's what caused his wife Celestyna to get an annulment and leave him for Sonjay."

Sonjay was a male warrior who had come to Rabona as an exile and was said to be fairly handsome for a "brown-skinned guy" according to Helen. He'd also proven to be virile; Celestyna was already with child.

An angry female voice retorted, "Why don't you comment on someone else's husband?"

Claire turned to find a red-brown haired female warrior wearing a simple white dress with short sleeves standing just outside the Romanow Imperial box. It was Galk's youngest silver-eyed wife, Clarice.

"I'll comment on whomever I like," Audrey snapped, defiantly holding her head high. "Particularly a man who never feels he has enough wives and can't have children with any of them."

"Girls, come on, let's not get carried away here," Claire warned.

Her attempts to cool them down were as folly as trying to freeze a volcano.

"You know what," Clarice hissed, showing remarkable self-confidence, "I always thought you were a stuck-up, priggish little asshole."

Audrey, infuriated, cursed, "Why you little bitch, if you—"

A stern male voice interrupted, "What is going on here?"

The crowd above them, all safely up the stairs or seated on higher level seats, parted to reveal a golden haired male warrior. It was Audrey's husband Andrei, who was holding their eldest son and looking quite unhappy as he clutched a young child. Andrei Tuluzy was the Imperial Romanow Ambassador to the Roidom of Toulouse; Katarzyna Romanowa's top man in Rabona. He was built leaner than Raki, his hair short but for long bangs, his hawkish face marked by fine goatee, and Claire could swear he moved with the same sort of uncanny silkiness the late elite warrior Rafaela once had. His son looked to be no older than three years old and was clutching his father tightly, looRoi first at his mother and then Clarice.

Audrey and Clarice seemed to know at once that the spat would not continue. Claire knew Audrey would never dare do anything outrageous in front of her son, while Clarice was probably only too well aware it'd be foolhardy to say anything with Andrei so close. Andrei Tuluzy was, after all, reputed to be a former member of the feared Silver Guard.

"Let's go, Clarice," Anastasia directed, appearing by her sister-wife's side and leading her away.

The crowd parted to let them through as they climbed the stairs and passed by Andrei's party. Another pair of warriors, one male and one female, dressed, like Andrei, in their ceremonial finest, appeared on the stairs just behind him. Andrei handed his son off to the other silver-eyed male behind him and approached. Audrey, breathing in for a moment, looked at her husband with a face that suggested her mood was somewhere between panic and shame.

"It's not what you think, Andrei," Audrey tried to explain.

Andrei walked down the stairs in a silky, silent manner towards his wife. He grabbed Audrey by the arm and took her out of earshot of most of the onlookers. There Andrei turned to his wife with a look that brooked no objections.

Andrei murmured loud enough for Claire to hear, "Nie testuj mojej cierpliwości, Audrey. Jeśli to się powtórzy, nie będzie można dać na zewnątrz naszej ambasady."

Whatever Andrei said it immediately shut up his wife, who turned pale and meekly nodded in submission to his judgment. His indecipherable words piqued Claire's curiosity; a part of her badly wanted to know what he was saying in Comnenian. Whatever he said, it was clear to her as to which of the Tuluzys "wore the pants" in their relationship.

'Just another phrase I have, thanks to Helen,' Claire thought, half bemused.

Andrei turned his hawkish nose away from Audrey and towards her, and at once, his demeanor completely changed.

"Ahh, my dear Claire, it is a pleasure to see you again," he complimented, bowing low and kissing her hand before rising again. "I must compliment your stately fashion sense. So few women here in Rabona seem to have the decency to not bare their cleavage; I'm relieved to see at least a few like yourself have more common sense and dignity. Merci."

"You are most kind," Claire replied, trying to but not stifling a budding smile.

Her elegant black dress hugged her body but did not offer up the kind of v-cut that nearly all her silver-eyed peers and their human compatriots cut in their dresses. It was not often that claymores agreed with her sense of fashion; the rules for fashion in Rabona seemed to be, as Helen put it, "if you've got it, flaunt it".

"Audrey tells me you needed someplace for the twins to play," Andrei stated.

Claire merely nodded.

"As it happens, my son would be delighted to have Teresa, Victor and Dominique come over to the embassy. It'd be no trouble, really, Audrey and our staff could look after them. You say the word, my dear, and I can arrange everything."

"That would be lovely," was all Claire managed.

"I'll see to it then," Andrei curtly replied. "You're more than welcome to sit with us in the imperial box. You've met Vice Ambassador Lazarov already", at which a long-haired, silver-eyed man in similar garb next to Andrei bowed and kissed Claire's hand, "and of course you've met Audrey's other dear friend, Valencia."

'Strange… I don't remember Audrey ever calling Valencia a 'dear friend,' Claire mentally noted. 'I wonder why.'

"Bonjour, Claire," Valencia effusively greeted her, giving Claire a hearty handshake.

Valencia was a short, petite female claymore infamous for both her ridiculously ornate hairbuns and her total lack of shame in talking about intimate matters. Claire was relieved to see her compatriot was wearing a less-than-revealing full-length red dress of a truly foreign fashion. It had almost no sleeves and a high collar, and was decorated by countless golden dragons down one side.

"If you'd like, I can send someone to extricate your husband and have him join us," Andrei offered, pointing across the chamber to the gallery opposite.

It took a moment to spot Raki, and hardly any time at all to notice he was talking to Ruud van Willems, the tall and always controversial Premier of the state.

"Best not to bother him when it comes to politics," Claire advised.

"As you wish," Andrei agreed before continuing to talk to her in a whisper, "but may I ask why you're so worried as to strap a knife to your left thigh?"

'How did he notice that? I was certain no one would notice,' Claire thought.

"How did you…"

Andrei quietly confided, "My dear, I was once a master at concealing blades."

* * *

><p>"Isn't it a marvelous sight, my dear Katrin?"<p>

The young woman, disguised as a nun, leaned over and hissed at him, "Master Louvre, I must really object to this public of a meeting place. We are too exposed."

Rubel ignored her entreaties as his eyes swept over the Parlement chamber. He was seated at the chamber's grand organ platform high up, well away from the light, opposite the chamber's magnificent diamond-studded throne.

Slender Katrin tapped his left hand where it lay on the platform's banister, her voice deadly serious, "I still think this meeting place is madness. What if one of your warriors recognizes you?"

Rubel turned his head to the left and threw Katrin a devious smile, "They would if the light was worse, my dear, but all that daylight fouls up their night vision, so ironically we're safer right now than we would be at night."

The chamber's massive organ was located as high as possible, near the upside-down v of the chamber's ceiling. Below, on either wall, were long lines of arched, stained glass windows through which poured a cascade of light. This was in sharp contrast to where he and Katrin stood, in the dim light near the ceiling.

"Is it really necessary for us to come to Miria Malaga's coronation, Master?"

Rubel touched his bent nose and languidly answered, "My dear, events these days are moving so fast, and there's just no substitute for being on scene to see them."

Katrin nipped back, "Then why are we not in Haaraleen?"

Rubel smiled and prodded his subordinate gently, "Now, now, my dear, must you spoil the current celebrations by bringing up such unseemly things as Violetta Angevin hiring an army to overthrow our 'dear' Reine Miria?"

A note of disgust entered Katrin's voice, "How can they be celebrating here today after what happened yesterday?"

Rubel sighed, for even spies had their limits, "I suspect they do not know, and the few that do don't want to spoil the party."

Katrin venomously spat, "The entire town of Frontenac was—"

"There will be justice for them, one way or another, my dear," Rubel assured her. "If not by the people of this island, then by those who will soon be here."

"Violetta Angevin does not stand a chance of conquering this island with a measly squad of nine warriors, even if she does hire 15,000 mercenaries. It's not like the Kingof Toulouse is lacking for money," Katrin commented with an air of disgust.

"You'd be right," Rubel remarked, clutching his hands and leading against the banister as he watched the elite of Rabonese society filter in below, "if that was all. There was some news this morning from our spies there. Violetta's aiming for to land a much bigger fish."

Rubel handed his protégée a slip of folded paper, which Katrin eagerly took from his outstretched arm and walked off to read. He knew the instant when Katrin's eyes reached the latest news.

Katrin exclaimed in Allemanian, "Das kann nicht wahr sein!"

Rubel amused himself by responding in Toulousaine, "If you were Violetta Angevin and trying to put your son on his father's throne, would you not try it?"

Katrin shot him a look as if he'd been holding out on her, "Du weißt, was das bedeutet."

Rubel scratched his face before responding in Allemanian, "Oh, ich weiß, was es bedeutet. Die weltbesten Schwertkämpfer könnte auf diese Insel kommen. Ich fühle mich fast leid für meinen ehemaligen Untergebenen."

Katrin scoffed in Toulousaine, "I've known you for 4 years, and you've never once said you felt sorry for your subordinates."

Rubel responded in the same language, "I just rarely express it openly, my dear."

Katrin tilted her head to one side and said, "Minhae Choung Park."

Rubel nodded as he watched the crowds below swell and echoed Katrin, "Minhae Choung Park. Now there's a person I did not think I'd ever welcome."

Katrin pronounced her judgment, "Die Krieger haben hier keine Chance. Sie werden sterben, wenn sie Minhae kämpfen."

Rubel remarked, "You're assuming it'll be one-on-one."

Katrin retorted, "Es ist Minhae Choung Park. Wissen Sie wie viele Minhae hat—"

Rubel cut her off in Allemanian, uninterested in talking further on the matter, "Vergessen Sie nie, Katrin, die unsere wirklichen Feinde sind hier. Minhae kommt nicht auf diese Insel, weil sie hier sein will. Sie kommt, weil die Romanows einen Preis auf Minhaes Kopf gesetzt haben. Vielleicht können wir sie zu unserem Vorteil nutzen. Aber zuerst müssen wir die Romanows zu infiltrieren jede Organisation auf dieser Insel zu stoppen, bevor sie entdecken, das ich bin immer noch am Leben."

"Monsieur van Gogh?"

Rubel nearly jumped in surprise at being addressed by a third party given the subjects he and Katrin were discussing.

A tall, silver-eyed priestess with long, straight black hair and plain white robes was standing at the balcony's entranceway.

"I apologize if I startled either of you," the priestess atoned.

The priestess' robes were long and flowing, and under the robes she wore a pair of striking red slippers and red gloves. The look on her hawk-nosed face suggested she had not understood a word of what he and Katrin had been saying.

Katrin recovered, "It's quite alright. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, Priestess—"

The woman gave Katrin a gentle smile, "It's Priestess Amelie, of the Order of Priestesses for the Poor. Archbishop Galatea sends her warmest regards to you, Monsieur van Gogh, and asks that you start to play within a few minutes, if you have no objections."

In one of the great ironies of his life, Rubel had found that his modest disguises, flowing black robes and new glasses had quite fooled Galatea. Of course he'd never really worked with Galatea, so her lack of recognizing him was no great shock.

"Of course not, priestess," Rubel assured. "Now then, I suppose I best start warming up."

He walked over to the plush organ bench, which faced the wall instead of the chamber, sat down and stretched out his fingers. It was the one great surprise in his life; he'd never imagined all of the fruitless organ playing he'd done in his youth would pay off so handsomely for his spy career many decades later.

The priestess nodded goodbye to them and departed down the long flight of stairs.

Katrin asked, "Do you still think Archbishop Galatea will last the year?"

Rubel mused, "I would not underestimate the will for self-preservation. She may have four bishops unhappy with her being a silver-eyed female in charge of the church, but they don't have an excuse to overthrow her yet."

Katrin turned back to the banister and looked down as Rubel began loudly testing keys on the organ. She turned her head towards him, evidently with something on her mind.

"It's a shame really, about that order of priestesses," Katrin remarked. "They try to protect the poor and all anyone on this island seems to worship is making money."

Rubel shrugged, "That may change soon enough. Given the events in Frontenac, we're going to need better access to the church than we had prior. I hear you're being made our dear Archbishop's chief aide next week, Katrin."

Katrin's eyes narrowed, "I've heard nothing of the sort."

"Well you heard wrong," Rubel laughed, "for I, the Archbishop's dearest and most God-gifted organist, have said a few words on your behalf."

"We'll see about that," Katrin scoffed.

Rubel looked over to see Katrin frowning at the nearly full chamber below.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

"Nothing's wrong, I'm just thinking," Katrin confided, her eyes surveying those below.

"About?"

"When I started here I didn't think it mattered. But that changed ever since I learned that it was the warriors on this island who helped Katarzyna Romanowa survive. You know how many of my peers and comrades have died because of her?"

"More than I dare count," Rubel answered while beginning to play a popular hymn.

"They're all responsible," Katrin spat, looRoi at those below, "and I intend to see them suffer as much as we have from Katarzyna."

* * *

><p>Raki was watching the last few stragglers from Parlement scurry into the chamber when the organ began playing far above, its player out of sight due to being almost directly above. He was seated in the upper gallery and had enough luck that he didn't have people seated directly next to him. There were however hundreds of people on his side of the chamber dressed in their finest, so it was hardly quiet.<p>

"Make way for the Roi!"

Below, Raki saw Cid, Miria's husband, dressed even more elaborately than before, this time adding a royal ermine cape. As he walked down the chamber's center aisle towards the throne, Raki noticed he was escorted by the Parlement speaker and both the Garde du Parlement and the more elaborately dressed Garde Royale.

"So the ceremony has finally begun," a familiar male voice interjected.

Raki turned left to see a tall, hawk-nosed man with black hair drop himself into the seat directly to his left. The man had an air of authority about him, and given his elaborate black and white vest, fine black pants and long brown boots, he was clearly not doing badly.

"Monsieur van Willems, what a surprise," Raki greeted his old acquaintance.

Ruud van Willems was the Premier du Parlement, the effective head of government for the Kingdom of Toulouse. Miria may have been the monarch, but she was a constitutional monarch with limited powers and involvement with the day-to-day running of the kingdom. She was more concerned with big-picture strategic matters, while the man who truly controlled the minutiae of government was Monsieur van Willems.

"Bonjour, Monsieur von Lautrec," Ruud replied as he folded one leg over the other, a serious look upon his face.

Raki cut to the chase, "Why the solemn face, Ruud? This is your moment of triumph."

Ruud shook his head and leaned over to talk more quietly as the procession moved along, "You know as well as I do it was your idea to put her on the throne."

It was a rare moment of honesty from Ruud van Willems, a politician who in Raki's experience was as good at stretching the truth as anyone. Then again though, with the public so eager to hear what they wanted to hear, those politicians who were more truthful often found themselves fighting for their political lives.

Ruud almost whispered, "I'm here to make a deal."

'_Ah, so now we come to it_,' Raki thought.

"Raki, you may not know it, but our nascent democracy is in danger," Ruud began rather melodramatically.

Raki remembered Raul Malaga's words from earlier, "Is this about taxes?"

Ruud's eyes narrowed, "Regrettably, yes. Raki, you may self-deprecate, but anyone with half a brain knows you are the leader of the third-largest bloc in Parlement behind mine and Monsieur Galacon's."

Raki wavered, "Well I don't know about the only leader, Ruud. Monsieur Chretien is pretty influential as well."

The Premier scoffed, "You're not fooling anyone, Raki. Chretien follows your lead."

Raki favored Ruud with a smile, "Only some of the time. Might I ask what taxation has to do with dangers to our democracy?"

"It has to do with the royals," Ruud said quietly.

Raki was pretty sure he knew why Ruud dared not say anything out loud. Saying anything bad about the Reine or her family was a sure way for a politician to get himself booed and thrown out of office by his voters.

Ruud handed him a paper while explaining by talking while gesturing at it, "You know the deal we made with Her Royal Majesty. In exchange for funding 3 out of every 10 Francs of government spending, she is exempted from taxation."

"Yes, and you will recall there was not a single no vote on the measure, Ruud," Raki reminded him, "politicians like being able to lower taxes for people."

Ruud exhaled, "The government is in deficit this year by about a 10th of its expenditures. I thought we would have the revenue to cover it, but we do not. The Roi doesn't want the government to run such a deficit, so he's demanding we either cover it by cutting spending and hiking taxes or we have to make another deal with the royals for them to fund it."

From below, Raki heard the Parlement Speaker announce in a gravelly voice, "Make way their Royal Highnesses, Princesse Natalie and Princesse Renée!"

Renée was Miria's first cousin, a fact only discovered a few years ago, when they'd scoured the Organization's records. Given that Miria's only other daughter, Natalie, was both younger and adopted, Renée was thus first in line to the throne.

"Well they can sure dress themselves," Raki muttered.

Princesse Renée was dressed in the Rabonese style, which meant she wore a dress with a high collar and a plunging neckline that revealed plenty of cleavage. The style emphasized a form-fitting, tight top with puffy shoulders and a flowing, full-length gown over the legs. It was a wonder Renée wasn't tripping all over herself just walking in it in Raki's opinion. The dress appeared to be a mixture of silk and cotton and was colored royal blue, golden yellow and regal green, the colors of the Royal House of Malaga.

A second after Renée had appeared, her adoptive sister appeared, both of them walking in tandem with a pair of ceremonially armored Garde Royale, one after the other. Natalie was dressed much the same as Renée, but was slimmer, shorter and had her hair in a long, shoulder-length wavy style. Like Renée, she wore elaborates jeweled earrings on both ears as well as a suggestive necklace that dipped into the top of her cleavage.

'Say what you will about the Rabonese style, but no one can deny that it's eye-catching,' Raki thought to himself. 'I certainly wouldn't mind if Claire dressed like that on occasion.'

"Well you have to admit, Ruud, whatever you think of the House of Malaga, they sure know how to dress," Raki commented to the Premier.

Ruud scowled a little, "Yes, and they'll be able to afford all that 'style' with ease. Their shares in their mining company are worth eight times what they were worth when Rabona's stock market debuted last year. Not only that, but from what I hear they're branching out and investing in new businesses at a prolific rate."

"I would expect nothing less when you have someone as money-savvy as the Roi Cid managing the Reine's finances for her," Raki pointed out.

Ruud paused a moment as he watched the princesses take their seats to either side of the throne before edgily replying, "Yes, and he's playing hardball again on upping their funding. He tells me that in exchange for the funding, he gets to determine where it goes."

Raki sniffed in amusement, "Would you say otherwise if it were your money, Ruud?"

Ruud came to the point, "He insists that we allow them a thousand Garde Royale instead of 500, he wants the navy to be majority funded by the royal family, and he wants the monarchy to gain the right to dissolve Parlement and call new elections. Raki, if I agreed to those terms, our democracy would be on the slippery slope. They already pay for 4/10ths of the navy and a third of the army. Ask yourself this, who would you rather have control the funding over our military? The people who were duly elected to represent their voters or an unelected monarchy? I know you nominated to put the Reine on the throne, but if we give up majority funding Raki, the army won't obey the whims of the voters, they'll obey the Reine. From there it's only a matter of time until we elected politicians wouldn't matter at all."

"I don't think you need to worry about that with Reine Miria, Ruud," Raki noted, trying to calm the Premier down. "She's a very generous person."

"And her generousity could kill our democracy in its crib if we let it," Ruud shot back. "There are politicians who would like nothing more than to strike a deal with Reine Miria to fund the whole government if it'll let them cut taxes to zero. If you ask nothing from your citizens, why would you ever need a Parlement?"

Raki scoffed, "The Reine couldn't afford to fund the whole government."

Ruud countered, "She could afford to do it twice over. I've seen their finances, Raki."

A herald dressed in a gaudy royal blue and golden yellow outfit began reading aloud from a parchment from in front of the throne, "Dear people of Toulouse, we are gathered here today to proclaim a new ruler, a just ruler, for our Kingdom. Coming to this moment was not easy, but—"

Raki turned back to Ruud, "So what do you want me to do?"

Ruud was blunt, "Give me the votes to raise the revenues or this democracy you cherish will become a sham."

"Why can't you just cut the expenditures?"

Ruud held open his hands, sound exasperated as he explained, "The only place I can cut that much is the military, and if I did that, I'd risk the nation's security and lose enough of my supporters that I might lose a vote of no-confidence. Do that, and Gaspar Galacon will be in power in a month."

Raki felt his stomach gurgle in displeasure at that idea.

Gaspar Galacon was the brother of Francois Galacon, someone Raki had long known by the name of "Galk". Both brothers were devout members of the Orthodox Church who had turned against the Inquisition, leaving them with ample amounts of popularity. Galk was not particularly involved in politics, but his brother Gaspar was quite the opposite. Gaspar led the largest opposition bloc of Parlement members, and all of them were quite devoted to their leader's advocating of hardline Orthodox positions. Positions like requiring people of different faiths other than Orthodox to register with the government or face deportation. Given he wasn't Orthodox, Raki could well imagine what Gaspar might try to do against him and many others should he ever take power.

"Well at least there's the Reine in between him and going totally wild," Raki pointed out. "It's partly why I nominated her to be on the throne in the first place."

Ruud grimly acknowledged that but warned, "That may be, but do you want to take that risk? My majority is down to 3 members, Raki. I need your support. You know what will happen if you don't back me."

Raki sighed; if there was one thing a politician didn't want to do, it was to raise taxes on their voters. He resolved to set a condition that would minimize the pain.

Raki scratched his nose before offering, "Ruud, I'll make you a deal. I will guarantee the majority of my bloc backs your government on two conditions. The first is that half the revenue must come from tariffs on imports."

Ruud, predictably, pushed back, "You are destroying good work with tariffs, Raki. Have you never read the 'Great Wealth of Nations'?"

Raki noticed the people around them were beginning to notice who was in their midst, which was leading to an almost equal measure of glares and idolizing stares.

He did his best to ignore the former, countering, "Ruud, my constituents are screaming about foreign merchants driving them out of business every day, the huge rise in property prices since they came, the rise in homelessness and petty crime, the widening gap between the haves and have-nots, and you worry a small tariff will cost jobs?"

Ruud was adamant, "Free trade will create more work in the long run, Raki. It's called creative destruction. The inefficient are driven out of business, leaving everyone else stronger and wealthier in the long run."

Raki had never bought in to this theory, and he let Ruud know it, "That's a nice theory, but you're not going to last in power if you don't agree to my condition, and you know it."

Ruud swallowed his pride, "Let's say I agree to this condition, what's the other one?"

Raki "We need to pay our parliamentarians better."

Ruud hissed back to avoid people overhearing them, "You want me to raise tariffs on merchants who support me and then turn around and tell them it's so you can increase politicians' salaries at their expense?

Raki was steadfast, ""Have you ever tried living solely on the salary we pay our members of Parlement, Ruud? I can't even afford a nanny for my kids."

The Premier was unsympathetic, "How do you think that will play with the voting public? They already love to complain about politicians being money-grubbers enough as it is. Neither of us would be re-elected if we voted ourselves a pay raise with the country's mood like it is. I can promise you the tariff, Raki, but if you don't drop the demand, Raki, then I promise you I'll tell everyone in Parlement who your wife has been spending her time with lately."

"What?"

Ruud pointed to the upper gallery opposite them, and as Raki's eyes followed Ruud's pointing finger, he came across a familiar figure seated alongside Ambassador Andrei Tuluzy and his wife in the Romanow Empire's exclusive box.

Raki cursed aloud in shock, "Merde, what the hell are you thinking, Claire?"

* * *

><p>Helen was getting rather bored with the coronation ceremony from where she was standing when finally the organist and the trumpeters changed keys.<p>

The gaudily dressed Royal Herald sprang forth before the throne yet again from his seat and proclaimed, "Seigneurs et Dames, Mesdames et Messieurs, place à Sa Majesté Royale!"

"Finally," Helen muttered.

"What do you mean, finally? We've only been waiting for a quarter hour," a female voice reproached her.

Helen did not have to look far to find Princesse Natalie a few paces ahead looking back from a Parlement seat. Natalie was wearing an elegant pink gown, the color of which was in sharp contrast to the attire of almost every other claymore in the chamber. The Diamond Throne stood upon a raised platform nearby, overlooking row upon row of MPs, dignitaries and the cream of society in the Parlement chamber to either side in front of the throne. Natalie's seat was behind the throne by about five paces and on a lower level, a level upon which Helen was standing as well. Only she was standing even further back in a recess in the wall, out of sight of most people. It was just as well, because Helen knew she was terrible at moving around in her red and gold gown. It felt ridiculous to wear such a thing. If it had been up to her, she would have worn ceremonial armor, which at least would have been easier to handle. Naturally Miria just about tore her hair out at hearing that proposal, so it was a gown or nothing at all.

Helen quietly hissed back, "I'm not suited to standing around for a ceremony. I'm supposed to be out there kicking someone's ass with a big sword."

Natalie shot back a witty retort, "Someone who can take on enemies with a big sword can afford to stand a quarter hour for my mother's only coronation, Helen. Or are you going to claim you can't handle even that?"

Natalie glanced up and over at the Roi's chair, where Cid was watching over the ceremony and the crowds like a hawk. His head shifted when a beautiful figure entered the chamber opposite them; it was Miria.

The garrulous Royal Herald dramatically proclaimed, "Nous demandons que tout le monde se lève en l'honneur de Sa Majesté."

At once every man, woman and child in the chamber got up and stood, many of them politely clapping and cheering Miria's appearance. The warrior Helen had once known by first name looked like a much changed woman. Miria's hair was ornately styled, the only thing familiar being it was parted in front into two long bangs that draped down to her lovely neck. Behind this Miria had her finely shampooed, brown-blond hair pulled into an elaborate bun atop her head, giving her an air of wealth and authority. This was a sharp contrast to the old navy blue leather and frazzled hair Helen remembered Miria sporting not five years prior.

Helen walked up behind the left side of Natalie's chair and commented, "Miria always did like dressing up."

Natalie scornfully whispered back, "Yeah, and you had to be dragged kicking and screaming just to come in something other than old leather."

Helen sarcastically commented, "Sometimes, I swear you want to make me try to strangle you, Natalie."

Miria stepped into the light cascading down from the chamber's stained glass windows on either side. The sight was jaw amazing the two of them into silence, for Miria was resplendent in her royal garb. Her dress featured a very high collar frill topped with five large, oval, red rubies atop its spines. It was an ornate mix of royal blue, golden yellow and regal green that caught the eye, especially as the golden yellow served as the border between green and blue. This made the dress full of eye-catching contrasting colors, which was in turn accentuated by the countless jewels. Rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and fine amethysts were everywhere, from the incredible necklace gracing the Reine's neck, to her earrings, the ornate wedding ring topped with a huge blue sapphire, and everywhere throughout the dress.

Helen quietly blurted, "How much did she spend on that?"

Natalie wise-cracked, "More than you ever will."

Helen gave the girl a quick jab in the shoulders, leading Natalie to let out a "ouch!"

Cid must have heard them, for the Roi turned his head and reproachful gaze towards them and muttered, "The two of you, knock it off, NOW."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Helen apologized, regretting her overly respectful tone almost instantly.

Cid, after all, had hardly been worthy of such respect only five years ago. Was his becoming royalty alongside Miria really making everything that different? The thought was disturbing, especially when Helen remembered that she couldn't place the last time she'd dared ever call Miria by her first name only.

"God that dress is amazing," Natalie whispered.

Helen had to agree with that sentiment. It was made in the Rabonese style, only everything was exaggerated. The cleavage was extra-ample, no doubt thanks to an underlying corset and a deeper v-cut than normal. The shoulders were extra puffy and colored golden yellow, which was in sharp contrast to the form-fitting sleeves. The bodice of the dress was gorgeously ornamented in color and jewels and fit tight against Miria's physique. The only other difference was some parts of the flowing gown in front were also ornamented, which was not typical. In short, it made Miria look every inch a royal, and people, especially the women, were taking note of every little detail.

'_As if the fools could afford to buy one of their own_,' Helen thought. '_Miria's got more money than God_.'

Helen regretted that blasphemous thought almost instantly, but it was not one she'd uttered aloud. This was good, because the last thing she needed was another lesson on being a proper Orthodox from Archbishop Galatea, or for that matter, loud lecturing about how she should give all her money away to the poor.

As Miria began her solemn walk forward, her eyes barely blinking, Helen noticed a few other changes in her old friend.

Helen whispered in Natalie's left ear, "Has she been gaining weight?"

Natalie cringed, "Maybe a little."

Apparently a 'little' meant Miria's waist was now several inches wider, her hips and posterior more pronounced, but the difference was most noticeable in Miria's bust, which was easily half again larger than it had been. Miria had never exactly been lacking for size in that area, and while she didn't look fat, it was concerning that she'd put on pounds there especially. Claymores with big bosoms had usually not been long for the world in the days of the Organization. It slowed them down, distracted them, and made them worse at jumping around, and even on someone as good a fighter as Miria all that extra weight would hardly make her a better fighter.

'I can't let her go on like this,' Helen resolved.

It was, again, another thought she almost instantly regretted. Helen had no idea how she was going to broach the subject of extra weight to a woman who no one dared speak an ill-word these days. Especially when the female in question was a pride-filled Reine who'd struggled her way to the top and didn't like taking criticism from anyone.

Miria kept walking down the center of the Parlement chamber, which was shaped a bit like a valley. In its center was a low, open area cloaked in fine carpet upon which Miria was now walking. To either side was a crush of onlookers, many of them MPs or their wives, seated in the inclined lower gallery stand of seats. Above them were members of the public, all dressed to the nines, in the upper gallery seats, all of which were on an incline to afford everyone a good view. It was then that Helen finally noticed Archbishop Galatea seated nearby, to the right hand side of the throne, holding a crown and scepter.

Miria, upon reaching the stairs to the throne, ascended them with ease, but instead of seating herself upon the throne she turned before it and stood. It was at this moment that Renée came forward with Miria's sword. Helen however was distracted by something in Natalie's dress. Or rather down it.

Helen hissed in disbelief, "Is that a note down your cleavage?"

Natalie, obviously desperate to avoid attracting attention, quietly hissed back, "So what if it is? It's none of your business."

Helen tried her best to look away and pretend she was enjoying the ceremony all the while snipping back, "I cannot believe this. You slipped some boy's note down your cleavage at your mother's coronation?"

"As if you're the innocent one here, Aunt Helen," Natalie retorted as quietly and with as little lip movement as possible. "Exactly how many marriages have you been involved the wrong way in?"

Natalie was speaking, rather bluntly, of her affair with Ruud van Willems, who had been married at the time. It took all of Helen's self-control not to snap and yell at the girl.

The ceremony, meanwhile, was moving apace, with Miria clutching her sword of state in both hands, its hilt to the ceiling and blade tip resting on the floor. Archbishop Galatea, who was wearing flowing red, white and gold robes and an elegant red-white cap over her flowing locks, took out a large religious book, flicked through a few pages, and settled in to read.

"Miria Victoire de Beauharnais Malaga, you have fought hard to hard on behalf of the people, and throughout that time—"

Natalie couldn't resist the moment to quietly comment, "I like how Galatea fails to mention she was one of those people mother had to struggle against."

Helen ignored this and instead prodded as quietly as she could, "Hand me that note before your mother notices it."

Natalie gave her an annoying smirk, "Or what, you're going to put a hand down my cleavage during the ceremony to get it?"

If there was annoying thing about silver-eyed girls getting older to Helen, it was them getting smarter faster than they matured. Natalie was right about putting a hand down her cleavage at least; Helen was not about to dare pull anything as crass as that at her friend's only coronation. In private circumstances however…

Galatea meanwhile was continuing her pronouncement, "So at last you have reached this moment, where you shall pledge your life, your faith and your service to the people of the Kingdom of Toulouse. Votre Majesté, are you ready to take your pledge?"

Miria answered in an almost dreamy voice, "I am."

Galatea upped the volume of her voice, evidently determined that all would hear, "Then repeat after me."

Natalie at this moment however interrupted Helen's enjoyment of the ceremony to remark, "Um, Aunt Helen, do you see those two men staring really intensely at mother?"

"This is no time for jokes, Natalie," Helen whispered back.

Galatea began, "I, Miria Victoire de Beauharnais Malaga, do solemnly swear… "

Miria repeated the words, "I, Miria Victoire de Beauharnais Malaga do—"

Natalie shockingly grabbed Helen's chin by one arm and pointed her gaze towards the crowd to the right. Seated a few seats away from the broad-shouldered Gaspar Galacon, Helen noticed a man dressed in a fine red outfit that looked a little travel-worn. His long face was staring straight at the Reine as if he were a man possessed, not by lust, but by anger. There was no mistaking his stare for anything but a glare.

'_Great, the one moment when I wished I had a weapon on me to be safe, and I'm in a dress with no weapon at all_,' Helen grumbled inwardly.

"I see him," Helen acknowledged.

Miria's vow, meanwhile, was continuing, with Miria now stating, "to protect the realm, uphold its laws, respect the rights of its citizens, consult and govern with the people's consent, and protect the true faith."

Natalie tugged on the cape of a nearby member of the Garde Royale to her right and whispered something when he leaned in to hear her. The man did not move immediately, but did make a motion to another guard nearer the seated Roi.

"He says they'll take mother out the back way to be safe," Natalie confided to Helen.

Galatea interrupted their conversation by proclaiming loudly, "Then by the power invested in me by God and the Rabona Orthodox Church, I do crown you."

Galatea grabbed the crown, which was beautifully made and shaped much like a crest, and placed it atop Miria's head to a thunderous applause.

"I declare you Miria the first, Reine Régnante du Royaume de Toulouse, duchesse de Rabona, commandante suprême des Forces Armées Royales et Protectrice de la Foi. Vive la Reine!"

The onlookers took up the line on cue as the Archbishop stood back and Helen thought she could see a faint smile on Miria's face, even from several yards behind and to Miria's right.

The crowd shouted with glee, "Vive la Reine! Vive la Reine!"

The glaring man in the crowd instead shouted, "Vive Lautrec libre!"

A moment later, he pulled something he out, and there was a scream, "He's got a gun!"

He tried to aim it at Miria, but at the last moment, Gaspar Galacon lunged down the row and knocked his aim skyward. The shot flew skyward in a cacophony of screams, smoke and the gun's booming echo in the chamber. Miria was still standing in the open, almost transfixed, seemingly too in shock to move when a second man knocked down several onlookers.

He shouted, "Rappelez-vous Frontenac!"

The Garde Royale belatedly sprang into action, two of them hustling the princesses out of the room but ignoring Helen. Another pair were rushing towards the second man, but there were too many people between them to stop him leveling his pistol and taking aim straight at the Reine. Cid jumped to his feet and had pulled his own gun out when the man opened fire upon the Reine from not more than twenty paces away.


End file.
